


Paint Me a Story

by trulymadlylarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Harry, Broken Engagement, Engaged Zouis, Family Member Death, Harry is 19, It starts with Zouis but ends with Larry, Louis is 26/27, M/M, Professor Louis, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Louis, University Student Harry, mentions of gang violence, mentions of previous abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulymadlylarry/pseuds/trulymadlylarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a mute college student, whom Mr. Tomlinson dubs as bandanna boy, lets his words speak through art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: the first day

There’s a quiet boy in Mr. Tomlinson’s art class.  Actually, perhaps mute would be a better word.  

On the first day of class in the Fall, the professor introduced himself to his students by his first name, Louis, explaining how the ‘mister’ tacked onto it made him feel old.  Despite the crinkles next to his eyes (laugh lines, of course) and slight stubbly beard, he was only twenty six— which was fairly young for a college professor.

Louis paced back and forth across the large room, scanning over the room of fresh faces.  The classroom was fairly large, filled with everything from pottery wheels to blank canvasses to books on contemporary and historical artwork.  The floors and walls were coated in various paint splatters that Louis had never bothered to wash off.  He claimed it gave the room  ‘character’; his students argued it was pure laziness.

His students remained silent as Louis walked around, cold, blue eyes scanning their fidgety faces.  They shuffled around, looking at one another, wondering why it was so still.  You could hear a pin drop.

The young teacher leaned against his desk at the front of the room.  Thirty or so art novices sat in front of him apprehensively.  He clapped his hands together, which were still covered in dusty brown clay from the pot he spun earlier.  

“Why is everyone so quiet?” Louis spoke up, lips curling into a smile.  The students seemed to sigh in relief, happy that someone finally broke the tension.  “My name is Mr. Tomlinson, but feel free to call me Louis.  Mr. Tomlinson is my father.”

The class laughed and cracked smiles.  

“Now,” he continued.  “Today, we’re going to discuss twentieth century art and the Post-Impressionism movement.”

The class groaned, and Louis just chuckled.

“Oi, stop your whining.  The first half of the class will be free time.  You can draw, sketch, paint, make an ash tray out of clay, make boobs out of paper mache, I really don’t care, as long as it deals with art.  And, no, mobile phones are not considered artistic,” he added as an afterthought.   

Again, the class laughed, and Louis grinned back.

“While you work, I’m going to walk around and introduce myself to you all individually.  Any questions?”

A girl at the front desk raised her hand.  She looked fairly young, probably a freshmen, Louis assumed.  She had curly blond hair that fell just beneath her shoulders, and sparkly pink lips.  She wore a flower printed dress and cowboy boots that rose to her knees.

“Ah, yes.  What’s your name?” the professor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Madison,” she answered with a smile, showing a row of perfectly straight teeth.

“Madison,” Louis repeated.  “What is your question, love?”

She cleared her throat.  “Are you single, Louis?” she asked, blushing slightly.  

The class giggled and some snorted at the remark, while others remained genuinely interested.

Louis chuckled.  “Um, no. I’m in a relationship.  I’m engaged, actually.”  He held up his hand, pointing to his ring finger.  A silver band wrapped around it with initials carved into the side.  Madison, and a few other girls as well, slumped their shoulders in defeat.  

“Right,” Mr. Tomlinson breathed out.  “Any more questions before we get started?”

Silence.

“Okay, get to work,” he smiled, switching on the radio.  Soft music filled the art room.  In several studies, it had been shown that listening to music while trying to be creative increased brain activity.  He turned it up a bit louder, so all the students in the back of the room could hear, too.

He strutted around the room, introducing himself to each and every one of his students.  He asked them for their full name and three fun facts about them.  He didn’t like to think of them as objects filling up his classroom, but rather actual people with thoughts and feelings.  

He tried his best to pay equal attention to  _all_ of his students, but for some reason, one boy in particular captured his attention the most.  He was seated in the far corner with a sketch pad in front of him, charcoal pencil vigorously scribbling across the crisp, white paper.  He was the last student who Louis had to introduce himself to.  His wavy brunette hair was messy and loose, pulled back in a flag bandanna that suited him nicely.  He was focused on scribbling something in his notebook.  He only got one quick glance over his shoulder before bandanna boy slammed his sketch pad shut and stared up at his professor with cautious green eyes.

Louis cleared his throat.  “Sorry about that.  I didn’t mean to startle you.  I was just checking out your drawing.”  He offered him a soft smile as an apology.

Bandanna boy just stared at him blankly, arms tucked over his drawing protectively, as if Louis’d snatch it up at any minute and burn it to ashes.

Louis coughed at bandanna boy’s lack of reply.  “Right, so I’m Louis and I’ll be your teacher this semester.  And who are you?” he asked, eyebrows raising.

He blinked at the older man.  His throat bobbed up and down as he pointed to the small name printed at the top of his schedule.   _Harry Styles_.  

Louis stood there, wondering why he didn’t just say it out loud.  Maybe he had a cold?  He did not appear to be sick, though.  

“Your name is Harry?” Louis asked, startled.  He nodded, hair flipping across his forehead.  “It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”

He held out his hand to shake bandanna boy’s— er, _Harry’s_ — hand.  Harry’s countenance immediately turned cautious, but he shook it anyway, just barely, before pulling his hand away and tucking it back into his sweatshirt pocket.

Louis gave him a smile and walked back up to the front of the class without another word.  He began his lecture about Vincent Van Gogh’s techniques, but found it hard to focus on teaching.  He kept glancing over at Harry, whose attention was back on his sketchpad once again.  He scrunched his eyebrows and drew, concentration centered on the paper.

The professor couldn’t help but wonder what secrets Harry kept harbored there.


	2. sketch a scene from your favorite memory

Mr. Tomlinson’s first project was given on a Friday.  It was a breezy September day, and the wind was nipping at students’ noses as they walked across campus, turning their faces rosy pink.  The leaves were turning crispy brown, like overcooked cookies, and were falling to their graves on the lawn in moribund piles.  You could hear them snap and crackle underneath people’s feet as they scurried to get to their next classes. 

But perhaps the best indication that it was Fall was that Mr. Tomlinson’s female students began bringing pumpkin spice lattes from Starbucks to his class.  He had to confiscate several every day because he didn’t allow food or drinks in his class, other than water.  It was one of his only rules, and his students knew that, too.

After the bell rang that day, Louis walked up to the front of the class and switched on the projector that sat upon a black cart.  As he waited for it to boot up, he coughed to get everyone’s attention.

“We’ll be doing something . . . different today, to prepare ourselves for the first project,” he announced.  “Now, I want you guys to write your own definition of the following item.  I’m going to put it up on the screen, and when I do, I want you to give your  _own_  definition.  Are we clear?  No Google definitions, yeah?”

His students just stared for a few seconds, and when Louis raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied, an echo of “yes” was heard throughout the classroom. 

Smiling in satisfaction, the teacher stepped away from the projector, revealing a picture of a simple, yellow pencil.  It wasn’t anything special.  Just a pencil— a clip art, plain, number two pencil.  A few students laughed, clearly confused, but Louis did not.  

Instead, he smiled softly.

“Get to work.”

He tried not to chuckle when he saw his students hesitantly writing out a definition for, of all things, a pencil.  They didn’t know what the big deal was.  It was just a pencil.  Why did they have to define it?  This was an art class, not English.

He paced around the room, glancing over their shoulders.  He rolled his eyes at one of his students, Amber, who had left her paper blank and crumpled it up, then gave it to Louis.  She explained that she couldn’t think of anything to write down, and that he’d have to give her a zero on the assignment.  Louis gave it back to her and told her to try harder.   Reluctantly, she returned to her seat and began writing out an amateur definition of a pencil.

After a few minutes, he went around the large room and collected every single piece of paper from his students.  He had them write their names on them, too, so he knew who truly tried and who didn’t.  He walked back up to the class, adjusting the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“So,” he began, leaning up against the dusty green chalkboard.  “Let’s read these definitions, yeah?”

A few students laughed, while others remained silent, clearly not amused.

Louis began reading them aloud, “John said, ‘a stick of graphite encased in yellow wood.’  Becca said, ‘it’s just a bloody pencil.’  Jenna said, ‘a piece of work used for writing and drawing.’  George said, ‘I don’t know, ask Google.’  Alex simply said, ‘lead’.  Ah, I like that one.  So creative.”

He tried not to sigh as he read through the rest of the definitions.  None of his students truly grasped the purpose of the assignment; that is, until he got to the last one, Harry’s.

Mr. Tomlinson’s lips were dry and teeth were gritting, reading those stupid definitions, until he saw Harry’s.  Then his heart dropped. 

Louis smiled fondly at his shy, green-eyed student, who was seated in the back, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.

He glanced back at Harry’s definition, then around the classroom again, all eyes on him.  “Oh, look here.  One person out of thirty five understood the purpose of the assignment.  Good job, Harry.”

All eyes turned towards him in the back, then quickly back to their professor as he began reading it.

“Harry wrote, ‘a pencil is a translator between the thoughts in your mind and the physical world around you.’  I think this deserves five stars, don’t you all agree?” Louis asked.

None of them said a word.

He continued, “The purpose of this assignment was to make you think of the purpose, potential, and emotional aspects of a pencil.  It’s more than just a writing utensil.  It gives your thoughts meaning.  You all could learn a thing or two from Harry.” 

Harry flushed and stared down at his feet, not enjoying the unneeded attention.

Abruptly, Louis placed the papers on his desk and turned around to face the chalk board that stretched across the messy paint-covered walls.  He grabbed a piece of chalk and quickly wrote across the green surface.  It was one word.   _Memories._

Louis grinned softly at the sea of blank faced students in front of him.  “Your first project this semester is to sketch me a picture of your favorite memory, using either charcoal or pencil, hence why I made you think about it.  When you think of ‘happiness’, what do you think of?  When were you  _truly_ happiest in life?  What memory sticks in your brain that, whenever it comes to your mind, you can’t help but smile?”

And as soon as Louis said those words, Harry knew  _exactly_ what he was sketching for his project.

~

The next day, Louis’s students began their projects.  He watched them, pitifully, as they tried to sketch out an image of their memory onto paper.  Most of them ended up scrapped, tossed into the garbage.  Then they tried again, and so on and so forth.

He saw many depictions of the same things— birthday parties, graduations, weddings, vacations, holidays, etc.  You know, those big, momentous moments in your life.  Louis had expected as much.  But, still, it bothered him how none of them drew pictures of really  _special_ moments.  Something that connected with them on an emotional level.

Something inside of him was itching to see what Harry was up to.

Mr. Tomlinson had walked up behind him, glanced over his sketchpad, where his charcoal pencil was vigorously flicking across in a crisscross of horizontal and vertical lines.  He kept pushing his messy head of hair behind his ear, as pieces of it were falling out of his blue bandana. 

His picture was just lines, so far, and Louis knew it was just in the ‘rough draft’ process.  He smiled down at his student, who finally noticed his presence, lifting up his face from his paper.

“Hey Harry,” Louis hummed.  “This is really nice so far.”

He nodded as if to say ‘thanks’.

“You seem to be the only one who takes this course seriously,” the professor continued.  “I really appreciate it, you know.  Your dedication and work ethic.”

Harry bit his lip in response, giving him another short nod.

So with that, Louis went back and sat down at his desk at the front of his classroom, propping his legs up as his students continued working.  He forced himself to peel his eyes off of Harry in the back corner.  He didn’t want to seem like too much of a creep.

A moment later, Louis’s mobile buzzed quietly.  He immediately glanced at the screen.  He had three new texts, one of which was from his fiancé, Zayn.  He sighed happily under his breath as he unlocked his phone and read it over.

_“hey babe how’s work? are u free for lunch?”_

Louis typed back quickly.

_“works good.  and yea, lunch sounds good love. Café at noon? Xx”_

A soft tap on Louis’s large metal desk caused him to look up, taking his eyes off his phone.  He was surprised to see Harry standing right in front of him.  His heart thudded and he placed his hand over his chest.

“Wow, Harry.  You scared me.  I didn’t even hear you walk up here, I— sorry, I’ll stop rambling.  Do you need anything?” he blurted out.

Harry’s throat bobbed.  He pointed to the sketchpad in his hands, then to the smudge in the corner.  It was small, barely noticeable, but to Harry it was like the world was ending. 

“I’m sorry?  I don’t quite understand,” the professor apologized.

Harry could feel his blood boiling beneath his skin, bubbling through his veins.  His cheeks heated up like stoves.  He could feel them burning.

And then, Harry did something that made Louis’s blood run cold.  He spoke.

All he said (or muttered actually) was “eraser”, but it was just that one word, those three syllables, that one breath out of Harry’s pink lips, that made Louis’s head throb.  His voice was so deep and rich, hidden with so much pain and soreness underneath.  He never knew how much sadness a voice could hold  until he heard Harry Styles talk for the first time. 

Eventually, Louis snapped out of it.

“Y-you want an eraser?” he stuttered.

Harry nodded.

Speechlessly, Louis rummaged through his desk’s drawers to find an eraser cap.  Finally, he found a single pink eraser wedge and handed it to him, hands practically shaking.  He felt so stupid because he was a grown man for fuck’s sake.  But Harry was so intriguing that couldn’t help but want to know more about him.  He was just a genuine, interesting person.

Harry thanked him with another short nod then walked away, returning to his desk in the back. 

As much as Louis hated to admit it, he didn’t take his eyes off of Harry for the remaining two minutes of class that day.

~

“So, earlier today I was thinking,” Louis hummed, taking a sip from his latte.  His eyes glanced innocently over at his fiancé across from him.  He smiled softly, and Zayn immediately knew what he was about to say.  He let him continue, though, because he loved this idiot after all.  “Our wedding colors should be blue and white, don’t you think?  Like clouds?  I think it’d be beautiful.”

Zayn rubbed his forehead tiredly.  “Yeah, sure.  Whatever you want, Boo.” 

However, Louis knew he was irritated because his dark chestnut eyes never met his.  Instead, they were focused down at the turkey sandwich he was munching on.  Louis sighed deeply.

“Okay, I’m sorry Zayn.  I won’t mention it again.  Silly me for wanting to plan what’s supposed to be the best day of my life,” he said sarcastically. 

“What?  I said ‘sure’, Louis.”

“Yes but you used a tone.”

“Oh my God, _everything_  is a ‘tone’ to you!”

Louis stopped chewing his food, jaw locked in place.  He rolled his eyes.  “Every time I bring up the wedding you flip out.  What is your problem?  Do you not want to marry me anymore?  Because, if I remember correctly,  _you_ were the one who proposed to  _me_ ,” he said coldly.

Zayn breathed out deeply, running one of his large hands down his stubbly chin.   “I’m sorry.  I’m just— money is tight, okay?  We just bought a new house together and a wedding is going to cost a fortune.  I want this wedding to be perfect, for you.  That’s why I want to wait.  I don’t want to rush into it and have a sloppy, half-assed wedding because you deserve the best,” he explained tiredly.

The art professor’s heart warmed up and he couldn’t help but smile gently at the man in front of him.  He’d known Zayn for more than five years now.  They met at a teachers’ conference.  Zayn was a special education teacher for kids with conditions such as Autism.  He taught them how to finger paint and draw and express themselves through art.  Louis had thought this was absolutely adorable and, long story short, they ended up going home together.  And they’d been together ever since.

“We can return the ring,” Louis suggested, twirling the silver band around his finger.  “I mean, if it’d get us more money.”

Zayn immediately shook his head, then reached over across the small café table separating them.  He grabbed Louis’s small, delicate hand and placed it in his own.   Louis’s eyes glanced up and down the length of Zayn’s arms, which were coated in a thick blanket of tattoos.  Louis had a few, too, but not nearly as much as his fiancé did.  He watched as he pressed his lips to Louis’s knuckles.

“You’re keeping the ring,” he insisted. 

“Okay,” Louis huffed, a lazy smile forming on his lips.  “We can wait.”

Zayn’s white teeth glimmered as he grinned back.  They sealed the deal with a kiss.

~ 

Part of Louis, a more optimistic part, was expecting Harry to open up to him after he said “eraser”; however, another part of him, the pessimistic side, had a feeling that Harry would just shut him out again.  Unfortunately, the latter was true. 

Harry never spoke to him.  He just burrowed himself in the back of the class, focused on his artwork and nothing more.  Louis was disappointed, to say the very least, but he didn’t want to force him into any conversations.  He only asked him important questions that dealt with the class, and Harry always answered with a nod or shake of the head or bite of the lip. 

So when the first project’s due date came around, Louis wasn’t expecting much.  When the class was dismissed, he got his class’s attention.

“As you exit, please turn in your memory sketches to me, and remember to have your name written on it, in some shape or form!” he said.

They filed out of the classroom in a messy fashion, plopping the sketches into Louis’s awaiting hands.  He muttered out various ‘thank you’s and ‘goodbye’s as they walked out into the college’s cluttered hallways.  The last student, of course, was Harry.

His eyes were soft and cautious green as he handed it over.  Louis adjusted his glasses, then scanned over it.  He froze.

The sketch was . . . breathtaking.  It was of what appeared to be Harry, in child form, walking in the park with an older woman, who Louis assumed to  be his mother.  His mother was balancing herself on the curb with her arms sticking out like an airplane’s wings.  Harry was mirroring her movement, following behind her like a baby duckling.  He was a spitting image of her.

Louis couldn’t help but wonder why this memory was so important to Harry.  It appeared to be a simple walk in the park, or was it more?

The drawing was absolutely beautiful.  Louis genuinely wondered how Harry’s work wasn’t already pinned up in museums for all to see and admire.

But before Louis had the chance to talk to him about it, he’d left.


	3. sculpt something that represents you out of clay

The next day, after turning in his first assignment, Harry didn’t come to class.  Louis was absolutely puzzled by this.  He was such a good student— the only one who actually seemed to care and take the course seriously.  It wasn’t like him to just ditch class.

Mr. Tomlinson tried to make the best of the day, but to be honest it was pretty boring without Harry there.  He was the one person who actually kept his days interesting.  Call Louis nosy, but he wanted to know all of Harry’s darkest secrets.  He had such an intriguing personality.  It was almost addicting. 

Louis’s classes were rather monotonous that day.  He was sat at his desk the entire time, texting his fiancé, snacking on crisps, and drinking coffee to stay awake.  He propped his legs up on his desk and hardly ever looked up at his students unless spoken to. 

Everything was just torturously uneventful.

He was hoping to talk to Harry about his drawing, even if it meant not getting an answer.  He simply enjoyed talking  _to_ him, watching his wordless reactions.  Perhaps Louis should’ve been a psychiatrist rather than a teacher, because he wanted nothing more than to get inside Harry’s brain and search through it, walk around in his shoes. 

And Harry’s sketch was only intensifying Mr. Tomlinson’s obsession.  It was so beautiful yet so tragic.  He could practically feel the pain etched into every pencil stroke.  There was something about that image of young Harry and his mother walking through the park that tugged at his heartstrings.  He couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

So over all, it was boring without Harry there.

~

Later that night, Louis stepped into his small suburban home.  He was rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly.  The keys jingled loosely in his hand as he walked, dragging his feet like a chained prisoner.  It’d been a long exhausting day at the university.  He set his messenger bag down on the floor and slowly began to unbutton his trench coat.  He tossed it carelessly on the back of the dark leather couch.

“You’ve been home for thirty seconds and you’re already creating a mess,” a distinctive voice spoke up.  Louis looked up to see Zayn standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed over his chest.  He had a smug loving smile on his lips.  His eyes flickered to his bag on the ground and his coat sprawled across their furniture. 

“You’re home already,” Louis noted with a hint of surprise in his voice.

His fiancé nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I took the afternoon off.  I thought we should have a romantic evening together so we can start planning the wedding.”

Louis’s face immediately lit up, for what seemed like the first time in ages.  “Really?” he said excitedly.  “But I thought you said you wanted to wait— until we had the money to properly do it?”

Zayn shrugged.  “Well, I was thinking— we have enough money as it is, I suppose.  It’ll be a stretch, and we’ll have to make a budget for ourselves, but I think we can make it happen.”

Louis squealed in excitement and rushed over to Zayn.  He wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him in close, breathing in his smoky comforting scent.  He pressed a kiss to the inside of his neck.

“Thank you so much.  I really needed this,” he said softly, lips close to his ear.

“Of course,” Zayn assured him, pecking his lips.  “Anything for you.”

“I love you,” Louis breathed, kissing him again.

Zayn smiled into the kiss and gripped Louis’s hips.  “I love you, too,” replied Zayn, nibbling on his bottom lip.  When he pulled away he brushed the fringe out of Louis’s eyes.  “Now, why don’t we have a nice dinner and start planning our big day, yeah?”

Louis blinked at him, amazed.  “ _You_ actually cooked?  Who are you and what have you done with Zayn?” he joked.

Zayn snorted, rolling his eyes as they stepped into the kitchen.  On the table were two plates, each with pieces of pizza placed neatly on them.  Louis smiled warmly.

“You did this?” he asked, amazed.

Zayn bit his lip.  “Well, I tried. I was originally going to make homemade pizza, but I ended up burning it and setting off the smoke alarms… so I ordered Dominos instead.”

Louis laughed but thanked him anyway.  After all, it’s the thought that counts.

~

Harry indeed came to class the next day, but he definitely wasn’t himself.  He had giant bags underneath his eyes, his skin was snow white, his nose was red, and his lips were chapped.  Normally he dressed quite nice, usually in skinny jeans and a nice button down shirt, but that day he stuck with navy blue joggers and an oversized jumper.  It wasn’t very stylish and he stuck out like a sore thumb.  All of the students had taken a liking to Harry’s sense of style. 

And of course the lack of his iconic bandana set everyone, Louis included, off guard.  Without the bandana to tie back his hair, parts of it hung over his face like a curtain, shieling his eyes from the sunlight.

He moved into the classroom silently, notebooks and pencils tucked securely under his arm.  He took a seat alone in the back of the room; he was purposely isolating himself. 

Mr. Tomlinson gave Harry a worried glance.  He wondered if he was simply ill with a cold or if there was something more to it.

But nonetheless, the class had to go on.  Louis stepped to the front of the messy paint-splattered classroom, carrying a large wad of brown clay in his hand.  He rolled it around in his palm, squishing it lightly in his fingers whilst he waited for his students to quiet down.

“Today we start our second project,” he explained, gesturing to the clay in his hands.  He began pacing slowly across the front of the classroom, eyes searching across the sea of students.  “Do any of you remember what it is— or rather, did any of you read the syllabus?”

A preppy red-headed girl in the front raised her hand.  Louis pointed to her.

“Yes, Ally?”

She fiddled with the glittery purple pencil laced between her fingers.  “Don’t we have to sculpt something that represents us?”

Louis nodded at her, smiling.  “Precisely.  Now, working with clay isn’t easy.  Sometimes you may mess up and you’ll have to rip it apart and start over, but you’ll just have to keep trying.  I’ll be grading on effort, as always, so make sure to give it your all.”

“When are these due?” another student asked.

“In one week exactly,” said Louis.  “That’s plenty of time.  Any more questions?”

He waited for a couple hands to rise with questions, but there was nothing but silence.

“Alright then.  I’ll leave the clay up here on my desk, so just come grab a chunk when you want to get started.”

Louis clapped his hands together and switched on the radio.  Soft “inspirational” music played through the large room.  He watched his students swarm around the desk and cut off pieces of the massive clay block, then return ambitiously to their seats. 

Harry, however, didn’t start his project that day.  Instead, he sat silently in his seat drawing emotionlessly in his sketchbook.

~

For the remainder of the week, Harry didn’t speak at all, or show any signs of emotion whatsoever.  Mr. Tomlinson had tried to approach him several times, ask him how he was doing, but he never got a response or even any eye contact.  He just ignored him completely.

And he wasn’t starting his project, either.  Whenever Louis asked him why he was procrastinating, he didn’t even get a glance, let alone an answer.  If he didn’t finish his project soon, it’d start to affect his grade.  That worried him a lot.

One evening, a day prior to the second project’s due date, Louis talked to his fiancé about Harry.  They were sitting on their small couch with Zayn’s arm wrapped around Louis’s shoulder.  Zayn was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ash into a tray on the coffee table. 

“So what?  He’s mute?” he wondered, twirling the cigarette between his fingers.

“I don’t know,” said Louis honestly.  “He just doesn’t talk.  I’ve only heard him say one word this entire semester, and he doesn’t seem to have any friends either.  It’s strange.”

“Have you tried contacting his parents?  Maybe they have an explanation.”

“I’m not gonna snoop through his files, love,” Louis said quickly.  “That would be an invasion of privacy.”

Zayn hummed in agreement.  “I suppose you’re right.”

Zayn went back to watching the film on their television screen.  It was some random action film with loud explosions and murders.  Louis wasn’t interested at all.  He frowned and poked his fiancé’s ribs to get his attention.

“Hey, can you actually listen to me for once?  I’m seriously stressed out about this.”        

Zayn sighed in annoyance and muted the film.  “I dunno what you want me to say, Lou.”

“I just want you to listen to me,” Louis grumbled.  “Whatever.  I’m going to sleep.  Goodnight.”

Without saying anything else, Louis stormed off into their bedroom and slammed the door.

Zayn scoffed, taking another drag from his cigarette.  “Drama queen,” he muttered under his breath.

~

To Louis’s surprise Harry did indeed turn in his second assignment.   It was better than all the other students, despite having procrastinated.   Most students gave him random clay figurines— a star, a heart, a cat, a horse, a half-assed vase.  They claimed these things represented themselves in some weird way, but Louis knew they just picked something arbitrary and went from there. 

They turned in these statuettes as they exited the classroom, placing them on Louis’s desk.  Louis murmured ‘thank you’s to them and smiled.  They hardly ever showed any emotion back.  Harry was the last student to turn in his, just like before.  He was seated at the back of the classroom and therefore was always the last to leave.

Harry’s assignment was beautiful, sculpted with great detail.  Perhaps the reason why it was so lovely was because of Harry’s massive hands and long fingers.  They molded into the clay and carved out his imagination.  He even bothered to paint it and glaze it, unlike the other students.  He always knew how to go above and beyond.

It was a lion, of all things.  It was fairly small and could easily fit in Louis’s hand, but his attention to detail was breathtaking.  Its mane had pencil marks going through it, giving off the illusion of hair.  Its head was hung low and its eyes were shut.  It didn’t look like your average courageous lion.

Harry placed it silently on Louis’s desk, and was about to leave like the other students, but Louis instinctively grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

“Wait,” he said breathlessly, eyeing the miniature clay lion.  He picked it up gently.  “This is lovely, Harry.”

Harry didn’t even look up at him.  His eyes were locked on Louis’s fingers, which still had a firm grip on his wrist. 

“Can you tell me how it represents you, though?  I’m quite confused,” Louis said softly.

Harry’s head was still hung low, much like the lion’s.  His long hair covered up his forehead and eyes.  Louis’s heart started pounding.  The long pause of silence was killing him inside.

“Please?” Mr. Tomlinson pressed on.

And this time Harry really did look up, emerald eyes locking with Louis’s.  He didn’t say anything though.  He just blinked at him silently.

“Lions represent courage.  Is that it?” Louis urged on.

Harry shook his head.  Louis felt his stomach flutter a bit in excitement.  That was the first time he got a response from him in ages. 

“If you don’t want to talk, you can write it down for me,” Louis suggested.

Harry silently yanked his hand away from Louis’s grasp and reached into his back pocket.  He pulled out his mobile phone.

Louis blinked, finally understanding.  “You— you want to tell me over text?”

Harry nodded.

Louis smiled warmly.  “Alright, that sounds fine.  Here— enter your number in mine and vice versa.”

He took out his phone and opened up a new contact.  He punched the name in as “Harry”.  They traded phones, and Louis was more than happy to see that Harry typed his name as “Louis” rather than “Mr. Tomlinson”.  He quickly put in his number, double checking to make sure he got it right.  They exchanged again and Louis slid his phone back into his pocket, ecstatic that he now had Harry’s number.  He tried to hide his excitement.

“I’ll text you tonight, okay Harry?”

His student didn’t say another word.  He just swallowed the lump in his throat and left the classroom. 

~

“I got his number!” Louis squealed when he walked into his home that night.  He looked eagerly at Zayn, who was sitting on the smelly old couch, munching on a bag of crisps.  He looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“Oh, so  _now_ you’re talking to me?  I thought you were giving me the silent treatment,” he sighed.

Louis bit his lip.  “It’s— I’m over it, Zayn.  It’s fine,” he rambled.  “But I got his number!”

“Whose?”

“Harry’s!  The mute student I was telling you about!”  He hurried over and plopped down next to Zayn, practically glowing with happiness.  His brown eyes narrowed in disappointment. 

“Are you serious?  Lou, you’re his  _teacher_ for crying out loud!”

Louis froze, immediately knowing what he was hinting at.  He shook his head urgently and grabbed his hand.  “Zayn, it’s— it’s not like that.”

“I know,” Zayn sighed.  “But other people might think there’s something else going on.”

“Whatever, Z.  It’s no big deal.  Can you just be happy for me?  I got Harry to interact with me today!  This is progress.”

“Okay, yeah,” Zayn said, scratching idly at the back of his neck.  “Just be careful.  It’d be a shame if you got in trouble for getting too personal with a student.”

“Thanks for your concern,” Louis said, grabbing a handful of crisps.  He kissed Zayn’s cheek.  “But I’ll be fine.”

Zayn doubted it.

~

It was past dinnertime when Louis finally texted Harry.  He stared at his screen for several minutes, contemplating what he should say.  Should he play it cool or just cut to the chase?  He didn’t want to seem like a creep, but at the same time he wanted to be friendly.  If he wanted Harry to  _really_ be honest with him, he had to think of Louis as a friend, not a nosy professor.  It was like a mental game of tug of war.

Eventually Louis decided on: ‘ _hey whats up?’_

He didn’t expect an answer so quickly.  But moments later, he got a reply.

_‘not much. doing maths homework.’_

Louis couldn’t believe how casual he sounded over text.  He was stunned.

‘ _i see. thx for working so hard on your clay project btw.’_

_‘mhm. it was fun to do!’_

_‘im glad you liked it. you have talent.’_

_‘well thanks. you’re not so bad urself. ;)’_

Louis stared at that winking emoticon for the longest time.  Perhaps he was overthinking it.  It probably just meant nothing, right?  He was just being silly.

‘ _speaking of which, mind telling me what the lion represents?’_

He was expecting something like ‘courage’ or ‘bravery’.  Instead, he got a one worded response— one that sank deep in Louis’s chest.

‘ _cowardly’_

Louis frowned at that.  He didn’t quite understand.  Clearly Harry realized this, too, because he sent another message only seconds later.

_‘y’know, like the cowardly lion from oz.’_

Louis’s eyebrows creased together.  He wanted to show Zayn the texts and ask him for his interpretation of it, but he didn’t want to expose Harry like that.  He trusted him, after all.

_‘what is that supposed to mean?’_

Unfortunately, he didn’t recieve a reply from Harry that night.  Louis desperately kept his phone close to him until the early hours of the morning, waiting for it to beep, but it never did.  

He didn’t sleep at all.  He couldn’t help but feel alone in that queen sized bed, even though Zayn was snoring loudy right next to him, arm hooked securely around his waist.  He wondered why Harry didn’t respond.  Did he say something wrong? 

Louis couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard he tried.  He was staring up at the ceiling fan in the darkness, thoughts of Harry running through his mind.  He debated calling him, but he didn’t want to seem too desperate (even though he  _was_ ). 

He was already anxiously waiting for Monday to come around.  He just  _really_ wanted to see Harry again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! I already wrote and completed this fic on my Wattpad, so now it's just a matter of editing the chapters and posting them on here. Feedback is appreciated! x Cara


	4. make a collage of your life so far

The following morning, Louis quietly padded into their kitchen.  He rubbed his eyes tiredly with his knuckles, letting out a soft kitten yawn.  His bare feet felt cold against the tiled floor.  His oversized t-shirt drooped down his shoulders, revealing his predominant collarbones and sun-kissed skin.

            “Morning sunshine,” Zayn greeted him with a bright smile.  He was clad in nice trousers, a tight fitting shirt, and a blazer to top it all off. 

            “Mornin’,” was all Louis said.  He swiftly walked over to the counter and poured himself a hot cup of tea from the retro styled kettle.  He took out a small spoon and stirred in a dash of sugar.  He held the mug in his hands, letting the warmth melt away his sleepiness.  The steam curled up towards his nose and filled his thoughts with utter goodness.

            “You’re up late,” Zayn commented.  “Usually you wake up before me on Saturdays.”

            Louis sighed and glanced over to the clock on the microwave.  It was nearly noon.

            “Oh, yeah,” he murmured.  “I just had a long night.”

            Zayn raised an eyebrow.  “Grading papers?”

            Louis stifled.  What was he supposed to say— that he was up all night thinking Harry?   He was usually an honest man, but a little white lie never killed anybody.

            “Yeah,” Louis nodded, “just repetitive essays about Leonardo Di Vinci’s art techniques.”

            Zayn hummed, stepping closer to the shorter man.  “So what do you want to do today?  We could go out to eat, or perhaps go shopping.”

            Louis smiled fondly.  “Shopping sounds lovely, actually,” he admitted.

            “Alright.  Go get ready then.  I’ll buy you anything you want at the mall,” Zayn promised.

            Louis promptly stood up on his tip toes and kissed Zayn’s cheek, then snaked an arm around his waist and patted his bum.  Zayn giggled and grabbed his waist, pulling him in closer.  He gave him a proper smooch on the lips.  Louis sighed happily into the kiss, loving the feeling of warmth and security surrounding him with strong, ink-stained arms. 

            “Go shower,” Zayn finally said, breaking the kiss, but still cupping the other’s face.  “Maybe I’ll come join you in a few minutes.”

            Louis bit his lip, suppressing a sly grin.  He happily skipped off to the shower, making sure to leave the door wide open.

~

            “What do you think of this one?” Louis questioned, holding up a navy blue knitted jumper.  Its sleeves were excessively long, in Zayn’s opinion, but he didn’t say anything.  He sort of liked it when the sleeves hung below Louis’s hands anyway.  He liked loose-fitting clothes on him.  They seemed to cuddle to his skin and make him look even cuter, if that was at all possible.

            “ ‘s nice,” Zayn admitted.  “Do you want it?”

            “Yeah.  I need more clothes fit for winter,” he explained.

            “Alright.  Then you should get one of these, too,” Zayn snickered.  He turned around and grabbed a loose beanie from a shelf.  He smiled brightly as he placed it on Louis’s head of tangled long hair. 

            “A beanie?  Really?” Louis said, voice squeaking.  He turned around to look at a nearby mirror.  “Do you think it looks okay?”

            Zayn chuckled.  “Everything looks great on you,” he assured him.  “You could wear a potato sack and still look like a model.”

            Louis blushed.  “So if I wore a potato sack to our wedding, you’d be fine with it?” he teased.

            Zayn nodded.  “You’d still be the hottest one there.”

            Louis snorted, taking the beanie off his head.  “You’re the one to talk.”

            Louis turned around and went back to looking through the various racks of clothing.  He ran his hand along the metal bars, pushing back the hangers.  He didn’t really pay attention to the price tags, if he’s honest.  After all, Zayn  _did_ say he’d buy him anything he wanted.

Zayn noticed that Louis was very particular with his choosing of clothing.  The truth is, Mr. Tomlinson had been paying close attention to all of Harry’s smallest habits— whether it be his tendency to chew on pen caps, or the way he twirls his bracelets when he’s nervous.  He also noticed that whenever Harry had the chance to choose any color, which was fairly common in art class, he picked orange.  He  _always_ picked orange.  It was his favorite color, Louis assumed.

            And maybe that’s why Louis— whether it was consciously or subconsciously— picked out an orange jumper, orange boxers, and orange socks.

            They left that particular store carrying large bags full of warm clothes.  Zayn even bought a few things for himself, too.  They walked side by side through the mall, shuffling through the crowds of people.  Louis reached down gently and grabbed Zayn’s hand, squeezing it.

            “Thanks for everything,” he said.

            Zayn scrunched up his face.   “Nah, no need to thank me.  My money is your money.”

            Louis scoffed.  “Shut up and let me thank you,” he snorted.  “I mean it, okay?  You’re getting a reward when we get home.”

            “I thought I had my reward this morning in the shower.”

            Louis smirked, rubbing his thumb over the back of Zayn’s hand, right over his bird tattoo.  “Oh babe, that was only part one.”

            Zayn cursed under his breath just as they rounded a corner.  Louis squeezed his hand in excitement.

            “Ooh, do you smell that?” he said, letting his eyes flutter shut.  His eyelashes danced lightly on his cheeks.

            “What?  The food court?” Zayn laughed.  “Are you hungry, darling?”

            “Yeah,” Louis admitted.  He bounced slightly on his feet.  “Can we get something to eat?”

            “Lou,” he sighed.  “I already spent a load on clothes, and you know how expensive mall food is.  It’d be cheaper to just eat at home.”

            Louis knew he was right.  They were both pretty awful cooks, but they usually tried to eat at home if at all possible.  Normally they stuck with boxed macaroni and cheese or frozen pizzas, which were fairly easy and cheap.  Sometimes, on a good day, Zayn would cook some delicious Arabic food, but that was about the limit of their culinary abilities. 

            The eldest pouted his bottom lip, blue eyes wide and innocent.  And just like that, he gave in.  Louis had him wrapped around his finger.

            “Alright, fine,” Zayn huffed.  “What do you want?”

            “KFC?” Louis suggested.  “I mean, if that’s alright with you.”

            “Whatever you want,” he replied. 

            Louis grinned happily and pecked his lips.  He grabbed his hand again and tugged him towards the restaurant outlet.  Zayn knew he was spoiling him, but he couldn’t help it.  Louis’s smile was priceless. 

            A few minutes later, the two men shuffled through the food court, trying to find a place to sit.  Louis lagged behind Zayn, struggling to hold his shopping bags in one hand and balance his fried chicken in the other.  They decided to sit by the fountain.  Zayn even pulled out Louis’s chair for him, who thanked him with a kiss and a smile. 

            While they ate, Zayn took out his phone and checked his e-mails.  Louis watched him shamelessly, noticing how he bit his lip as he read, and the way he slowly licked his fingers after eating.  Louis began to fidget in his seat, bouncing his leg up and down. 

            Suddenly, Louis caught something (or someone, rather) out of the corner of his eye.  He swore under his breath and reached underneath the table, squeezing Zayn’s knee.

            “Hm?” Zayn said, lifting his head.

            “Look over there,” Louis said in between clenched teeth.  He gestured to a table across the food court. 

            “Huh?  Do you know them?” Zayn said, confused.

            “That’s Harry,” Louis said, panicking.  “Thestudent I’ve been telling you about.”

            He was sat with a girl, who was perhaps a few years older than he.  Her ombre hair was a light brown color with blonde tips.   She was smiling at him, casually chatting, while he answered through a series of nods, head shakes, or one worded responses.  Then she reached cross the table and placed her hand over Harry’s, squeezing it lightly. 

            Zayn hummed, taking another bite of his chicken.  “He must not be entirely mute,” he commented.  “He seems to be having a proper conversation with his girlfriend.”

            Louis looked back at him, eyes wide.  “You think that’s his girlfriend?”

            Zayn shrugged.  “Seems like it.  Look at their body language.”

            Louis furrowed his eyebrows and glanced back at Harry’s table.  They did seem quite close.  Harry appeared sad or gloomy, but whenever that girl smiled, he smiled back.  Plus she kept squeezing his hand and giving him gentle smiles. 

            “Hey,” Zayn said, breaking him out of his train of thought.  He tapped his arm to get his attention.

            “What?”

            “Stop looking over there, alright?  It’s none of your business,” Zayn huffed.

            Louis crossed his arms over his chest.  “Yes it is.  I’m his teacher.”

            “Right.  So your only business revolves around the classroom.”

            Louis scoffed.  “Fine.  Let’s go,” he snapped.  He stood up from the table, making the chair screech against the tiled floor. 

            Zayn rolled his eyes.  “C’mon, babe.  Don’t be like that.”

            “Let’s go,” he repeated, ignoring him.  “Like you said, it’s none of my business.”

            He stormed out of the mall with Zayn trailing behind like a shadow.  He had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting part two of his reward. 

            The remainder of the day was purely the silent treatment.  Louis ignored Zayn at all times.  He wasn’t really sure  _why_ he was mad, exactly.  He just  _was_.  Zayn didn’t seem to understand that Louis genuinely cared about Harry’s wellbeing. 

            The following day was no better.  Zayn just watched Louis bound around the house all day, clad in only his boxers.  It was a sad attempt, Zayn decided, to make him apologize.  But the truth is that Zayn didn’t even know what he should be apologizing for. 

            That night, for the first time in a long time, Louis fell asleep on the couch without Zayn’s arms to hold him.             

~

            Bright and early on Monday morning, Louis walked into his classroom five minutes late.  He was an absolute mess.  He muttered various apologies to his awaiting students as he stepped inside, carrying a coffee cup in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.  He had giant bags underneath his eyes and a mop of messy hair on his head.  He hadn’t shaved, leaving him with stubble on his chin and upper lip.

            “Sorry I’m late,” Louis murmured, setting his things down on the desk.  “My fiancé forgot to wake me up this morning.”

            He rubbed his face tiredly and took another sip of his Starbucks coffee, sighing happily as the warm liquid slipped down his sore throat. 

            “Okay,” he sighed as the students took their seats.  His eyes immediately shifted to Harry, who was sat in his usual desk in the back.  He looked better today, much to Louis’s relief.  He looked well rested and was dressed nicely. 

            “Today we’ll be starting our third project of the semester,” Louis continued, stepping over to the chalk board.  He picked up a white, dwindling piece of chalk and scribbled across the board: collage.  His handwriting was scratchy and messy, with sharp edges and capital letters.  He turned around, wiping his powdery fingers on his trousers.  “Can anybody explain to me  _what_ exactly a collage  _is_?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

            He pointed to the girl in the front row, who had her hand raised. 

            “It’s, like, sticking a bunch of pictures together,” she said, smacking her gum loudly in her mouth.

            “Right. It’s a mixture of various items— photographs, paper, fabric— that unify to form one single piece of art,” the professor explained.  “And  _your_ job is to make a collage that represents your life— something that tells  _your_ story through tiny, little pieces.”

            A blond boy raised his hand, squinting his chestnut brown eyes.

            “Yes?”

            “When will this be due?”

            Louis smiled faintly.  “Ah, good question.  This project shouldn’t take too long.  It will be due on Friday.”

            A round of sighs and groans was heard around the classroom.  Louis rolled his eyes. 

            “Oh, stop whining.  You’ll have plenty of time,” he assured them.  He patted a stack of magazines next to him.  “If you want to use magazine clippings, you’re welcome to.  Also, there is a bin in the back with various ribbons and fabrics.  You’re can use pictures from home, too.  Now get to work.”

            As the classroom cleared to start working, Louis watched Harry carefully.  He sat silently in the back, picking at his nails.  He looked gorgeous, if Louis’s honest.  His hair was tied back with his famous headband, and he was wearing dark skinny jeans and a loose fitting t-shirt.  His boots tapped on the floor rhythmically. 

            Louis, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling very confident.  He knew he didn’t look like his normal handsome, well-rested self.  Nevertheless, he needed to talk to him.  Something inside of him was screaming at him to get up and talk.  So he built up enough courage to head towards the dimly lit backside of the classroom.  He slid into the seat next to Harry without making a peep.

            Harry finally looked up, bright green eyes blinking. 

            “Hi,” Louis greeted, a bit shyly.  “How was your weekend?”

            Harry actually smiled for once.  It took Louis’s breath away.

            “Good?” Louis answered for him. 

        Harry nodded, soft smile spread across his bright red lips.  They were chapped from the cold weather and brisk wind. 

        “Glad to hear it,” the professor continued.  “I really appreciate your work ethic in this class, by the way.”

        Harry just shrugged, as if to say, ‘it’s no big deal.’

        “I really mean it,” Louis pressed on.  “Are you thinking about going into the art field after you graduate?”

        Another shrug.

        “You should consider it, Harry,” Louis continued, liking how the name rolled off his own lips.  “You have a lot of potential.  Your sketch was incredible, and so was your sculpture.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”

        Harry bit his lip, in an almost embarrassed manner, as if he’d never heard anyone say that before— that he had potential.  It occurred to Louis that perhaps Harry didn’t really have anyone to support him.  He never mentioned his family, and he seemed to have no clue that he possessed so much talent.  Maybe he didn’t even  _know_ just how wonderful he really was.

        “If you ever need help, ask me, okay?  I believe in you,” Mr. Tomlinson promised. 

        Harry blinked at him and nodded.  Louis took that as a ‘thank you.’

        “It’s no problem,” the eldest continued.  He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly.  “I should get back to grading papers.  Come up to my desk if you need anything.”

        Harry nodded at him again, softly mouthing the words ‘thank you.’

~

        Louis arrived home that evening, still feeling quite bitter from the night before.  He came home to find Zayn sat on the couch, smoking a joint.  The professor rolled his eyes, fanning the smoke out of his face with his hand.  It’s not that he hated the idea of weed— he’d be lying if he said he didn’t try it every now and then.  It’s just that he didn’t like coming home to find his fiancé high on the couch, with the house a total mess, after they just had a fight one day prior.  The least he could do is pick up after himself.

        “Really, Zayn?” Louis said sharply.  “How long have you been home?”

        He shrugged.  “A couple hours.  They let me off early today.”

        “Yeah, I see that,” Louis scoffed.  “Couldn’t you at least clean up a bit?”

        Zayn inhaled sharply, closing his eyes as the sweet smoke filled his lungs.  He let out a gentle puff into the air, laughing a bit.

        “Calm down babe.  I’ll do it later.”

        “Forget it,” Louis snapped.  “I’ll do it myself.  As usual, I’m cleaning up after  _your_ mess.”

        He began to walk past Zayn, but he suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him down onto the sofa, yanking him on top of him.  Louis made a surprised squeaking sound, shocked blue meeting calm chestnut.  Zayn’s hand softly squeezed his bum to keep him there, kneading his fingers into the plump flesh. 

        “I already did the washing up,” Zayn assured him, “and I cleaned our bedroom.  I  _told_ you.  I’ll tidy up the rest later.”

        Louis bit his lip.  “Promise?”

        “Promise,” Zayn huffed, taking another drag from his joint.

        Louis sighed.  His chest was directly above Zayn’s, and he could feel his heart beating against his skin, calming him down.  He gently ran his fingers across Zayn’s stubble.

        “I’m still a bit mad though,” Louis admitted.  “Why didn’t you wake me up this morning?  I was late to class.”

        Zayn’s brow creased.  “What do you mean?  I tried, remember?  You told me to fuck off.”

        “I did?”

        “Yeah, you did.”

        “Oh,” Louis said, scratching the back of his neck.  He brought up his legs so he was straddling Zayn’s waist.  It was more comfortable this way.  He planted his hands on Zayn’s chest, rubbing the fabric of his shirt in between his fingers.

        Zayn put his hands on Louis’s thighs, smirking a bit.  He gave them a gentle squeeze.

        “You look cute today,” he said abruptly, changing the subject. 

        Louis snorted.  “I look homeless.”

        “You look rugged,” Zayn corrected, twirling a finger through Louis’s shaggy hair.  “I like you like this.  It suits you.”

        Louis blushed.  “Yeah?”

        “Mhm,” Zayn hummed, taking another puff into his closed mouth. 

        He cupped Louis’s face and brought it close to his, connecting their lips together.  He let out the breath of smoke into Louis’s mouth, letting his tongue quickly dart into the other’s.  Louis moaned quietly, letting his eyelashes flutter shut.  The mixture of smoke and kissing lifted his spirits.  He felt like he was on top of the world.

~

        Louis awoke the next morning to the feeling of kisses peppering his face.  It instantly put a smile on his face.  He stretched his arms, letting the soft lips dance across his stubbly cheeks.  He kept his eyes closed, desperately wanting to savor this moment. 

        “Mornin’ Zayn,” Louis breathed, finally opening his eyes.  The bright light streaming in from the nearby windows blurred his vision a bit.  He roughly made out a face before him, smiling down on him.  He briefly rubbed his eyes with his knuckles to clear his sight.

        But, to his utter surprise, he didn’t see his fiancé.  He didn’t see olive skin, jet black hair, and brown piercing eyes.  He didn’t see tattooed arms and piercings, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones.  Instead he saw bright green eyes, long brown hair, with that iconic bandana wrapped around his head.  Those dimples, too, that possessed Louis from the day he first laid eyes on him. 

        Everything looked so blurry and bright, like this was some kind of weird heaven-like state.  It was like a strange fantasy.  Louis felt like he couldn’t breathe.  He could’ve  _sworn_ he fell asleep with his fiancé the night before, after two rounds of amazing sex.

        “Harry?” Louis said, panicking.  “What are you doing here?”

        It was strange, Louis decided.  His own voice seemed to echo in his head.

        Harry opened his mouth to speak.  Instead of words, however, loud beeps began to pour out of his strawberry lips.

~

        Louis sprung awake from the strange, vivid dream to the sound of his alarm going off next to him.  He was huffing and puffing, with a thin layer of sweat covering his caramel skin.  His bright blue eyes were wide awake now, darting across the familiar bedroom.  He looked over next to him.  He felt a rush of relief when he saw Zayn lying next to him, rather than his art student. 

        It was just a dream— a freakish, terrifying dream.

        Louis slammed his fist down on the alarm clock, finally making it stop.  He leaned forward and rubbed his face, shaking his head slightly.  Why did he have that dream— that he was  _kissing_ Harry?  What was wrong with him?

        “Lou,” Zayn spoke up, running his hand up Louis’s arm.  “What’s wrong babe?  Are you alright?”

        Louis looked at him with guilt spread across his face.  He couldn’t believe he actually  _dreamed_ about that— being in bed with someone else.  He cursed his subconscious mind.  And why Harry, of all people?  He stared blankly at the wall in front of him, mouth hanging open.

        “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Zayn said, genuinely sounding worried.

        The blue-eyed man blinked at him, lips parted.  “Yeah, I— I’m fine.  I just had a nightmare, that’s all.”

        “Are you sure that’s all it was?” Zayn wondered, resting hand on his knee.  “Do you need anything?”

        Louis shook his head.  “No, no,” he rambled.  “I’m alright.”

        “Okay,” his fiancé said, standing up.  His voice was filled with uncertainty.  He looked back at Louis, who was still seated on the bed, pale and scared.  “I’ll go make you some tea.  You look like you need it.”

        Louis smiled fondly.  “Thanks,” he hummed.  But before Zayn turned to leave their bedroom, he called after him.  “Wait, Zayn!”

        He turned back around swiftly, eyebrows up.  “What?”

        “I love you,” Louis blurted.  He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt the urge to say that.  Maybe he just missed the feeling of those words slipping past his lips.  He hadn’t told him it in a while, after all.  Or perhaps he needed to prove it to  _himself_ — that he still loved him.

        Zayn grinned, stepping in closer.  He pecked Louis’s lips, the taste of smoke still lingering on his tongue. 

        “I love you, too,” he promised. 

~

            Louis arrived to his classroom that day on time, though he was flustered and embarrassed as soon as Harry walked through the door.  It didn’t help that he looked absolutely stunning, with his perfect hair and cheeky grin and flawless, ivory skin.

            Harry looked like he was in a good mood, though, which was a good thing.  He even waved at Louis as he walked in, passing by his desk.  He took his usual seat in the back, setting his canvas rucksack on the floor next to him.  Louis sat at his desk, chewing on his pen nervously.  He watched Harry as he dug through his rucksack and pulled out a lump of old Polaroid photographs from a pocket, then splayed them across his desk.  They must be for his collage, Louis decided.

            The students knew it was a work day, so they immediately started creating their collages or procrastinating with doodles.  Louis’s eyes were drawn to Harry once again.  He took scissors and cut up the Polaroid photos, then organized them into a certain shape across the surface of his desk.  As he worked, he bit his lip in concentration and squinted his sparkling eyes.

            All Louis could imagine were Harry’s lips peppering his face as he woke up.  It was driving him crazy.  Louis  _didn’t_ want to feel this way.  He wasn’t some sick professor who wanted to fuck his students.  No.  That’s  _not_  who he was.  He was a dedicated man with a fiancé.  And, for crying out loud, he hadn’t even held a proper conversation with Harry yet!  Why did he feel this tugging desire in his heart?  It didn’t make sense.

        Feeling the sudden need to prove himself, Louis sat up from his desk.  He brushed his hand over Harry’s shoulder as he sat down on the stool next to him.

        “Hello Harry,” he greeted.  “Working on your collage, I see.”

        Harry nodded, but moved his arms to cover his work in progress.  The countless Polaroid pictures hid beneath his oversized flannel sleeves.  Louis quirked an eyebrow.

        “Ah, I get it.  It’s a surprise?” he concluded.

        Harry smiled.  Louis took that as a ‘yes.’

        “Okay.  I guess I’ll see it Friday, then.”

        Harry nodded again, grin wide across his face.  Louis felt a knot in his chest.  All he could think about were his cotton candy lips, innocent dimples, luscious hair, and emerald eyes piercing into his soul.  The professor felt like he could barely breathe.  He was a man in his mid-twenties.  Why was he swooning over his nineteen year old student? 

        Right,” Louis coughed awkwardly, standing up.  He brushed off some invisible dust from his pants, as an excuse to hide his blushing cheeks.  “Good work, Harry,” he murmured.

        Louis promptly shuffled back to his desk at the front of the classroom, lips pressed into an uncomfortable thin line.  He busied himself by texting Zayn cute little messages whilst he was at work.  But everything felt so  _wrong_.  He felt so dirty and guilty and unfaithful. 

            He didn’t know how to stop himself.

~

            The remainder of the week was pretty much a repetitive routine.  Every night, Louis had passionate sex with Zayn, trying to prove to himself that there was still something  _there_ — something worth fighting for.  And every morning, Louis went to work, and nothing changed.  He still felt that burning desire to make Harry his own. 

            Louis had been cheated on before, by one of his ex-girlfriends.  He knew how much it hurt.  He wasn’t going to do that to Zayn, too.  He wasn’t that sort of person.

            But no amount of guilt could dissolve Louis’s sick, twisted feelings.

            Harry continued to cheekily ignore Louis during class, which only intrigued him even  _more_.  He wanted the collage to be a secret, apparently.  The mystery and curiosity twisting in Louis’s head just spurred him on, turning him into a weak, infatuated fool.  He didn’t like the person he was becoming— not one bit.

            Friday finally rolled around: the due date for the third project.  Louis felt ill and disgusted as he walked into class that day.  That very morning, he’d fucked Zayn in the shower, but all he thought about was Harry— Harry’s hot kisses, Harry’s bum, Harry’s burning touch, Harry’s moans and screams and curses. 

            He hated himself— or rather, he hated his subconscious mind for thinking those dirty thoughts in the first place.  He didn’t dare look at Harry all day.  He didn’t want to say or think something he’d regret later on.

            “Alright,” Louis sighed at the end of the class period.  He looked absolutely exhausted.  Dark circles settled beneath his tired eyes, and his posture was rather sluggish.  “On your way out, please place your collages on my desk.  Have a nice day.”

            A mountain of collages soon stacked upon his desk.  They were all sorts of colors, shapes, sizes, and types.  He was thankful that his students at least gave some sort of effort. 

            And lastly, as usual, there was Harry.  He looked like a shadow as he moved behind the mob of other students, shuffling in puzzling silence.  He looked up at Mr. Tomlinson with a slight smirk.  Louis felt his heart beating like a drum. 

            “Thanks, Harry,” was all Mr. Tomlinson could choke out. 

        Harry placed his collage, folded up, in Louis’s hands, rather than on top of the towering stack on Louis’s desk.  Louis swallowed the growing lump in his throat.

            Harry smiled at him.  “Bye,” he said, catching Louis off guard.  His voice sounded like music to his ears.  He rarely ever heard him speak, but when he did, it was magical. 

            Louis blinked at him.  “Yeah, um.  I’ll see you Monday.”

            Harry waved at him cutely before exiting.

            After a few seconds of utter silence and blinking at the door, Louis stared down at his collage in his hands.  Harry’s name was scribbled across the back of the paper.  His signature was absolutely beautiful, with loops and smooth, immaculate lines.

           Louis then proceeded to unfolded it.  He felt his breath catch in his throat.  Glued onto the paper were those black and white Polaroid photographs, forming into the shape of a gun.  He’d cut them out perfectly and placed them with gentle care.  The small photos of Harry’s childhood emanated a spooky vibe.  They all formed something so deadly— a handgun, of all things. 

            Harry looked adorable as a child, Louis soon realized.  He had straighter hair, crooked teeth, but that same dimpled smile.  He appeared like a relatively happy kid— he didn’t seem antisocial, not even the slightest.  It made Louis wonder what happened to him.  What could’ve caused him to stop talking?

            There were photographs of him playing with other children, sitting on his mother’s lap, and lounging around with a girl a bit older than he.  He assumed she was his sister.  There were no pictures of a male figure, however.  Apparently Harry didn’t have a father.

            Mr. Tomlinson soon realized that perhaps these projects were almost like clues.  Each one of them hinted to some great mystery, and Louis couldn’t wait to solve it. 


	5. using pointillism, draw one of your darkest secrets

"What's the special occasion, Lou?" Zayn inquired, peering into their foggy bathroom. The room was fairly large, with a giant tub and double sinks. The steam from the filling bathtub clouded up the air, leaving moisture streaks on the mirror over the sinks.

Louis bent over the tub's edge, pouring in a bottle of lavender soap. He stirred it around with his hands, watching as the liquid began to transform into a layer of suds. He was only in his boxers with his lazy Saturday clothes tossed carelessly on the tiled floor.

"No occasion. I just wanted to run a bath, is all," Louis said innocently.

Zayn nodded at that. "It's just- you've been so cuddly lately."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," Zayn clarified. He reached out and grabbed Louis's tiny waist, pulling him in close. "I like it when you're cuddly. It shows how much you love me."

"I do love you," Louis promised, both to himself and to Zayn.

"I love you more."

Louis hummed happily. He hooked his fingers under the hem of Zayn's tank top. He lifted it up slowly, throwing it on the floor next to his own clothes. His eyes raked over his fiance's chiseled chest, and the multiple tattoos that decorated it. His skin was like a work of art.

"I like this one," Louis commented, thumbing over his lipstick stain tattoo. It sat in the center beneath his collarbones, surrounded by two angel wings. He slowly leaned in and kissed it, placing his own lips on top of the inked ones.

Zayn bit his lip, heart beating faster. "Babe, you-"

"Now how about that bath, yeah?" he interrupted. He scampered over to the side of the tub, slipping his boxers down to his ankles. He stepped out of them, purposely wiggling his bum for the other lad. He settled into the tub and spread his legs, letting out a gentle sigh.

Zayn's throat bobbed. "Lou-"

"Aren't you coming?" Louis teased, leaning back comfortably. "The water's fine."

He rolled his eyes and shed his own clothes, and then settled in between Louis's awaiting legs. He instantly felt a rush of relaxation, from the heated water, to the good smelling bubbles, to Louis's warm legs caressing him closely. He leaned back against Louis's chest, smiling.

Louis was breathless. Every part of Zayn was beautiful, from his hair to his tiny toes, which fiddled with the hot water knob. He mindlessly switched it on and off, filling the bath with more heat and comfort.

"Want me to wash your hair?" Louis asked, almost rhetorically.

Zayn absolutely loved Louis touching his hair- whether it be hair tugging, scalp massages, or simply washing. So he didn't really have to reply. Louis just grabbed the detachable shower head and washed out Zayn's hair, snickering as his quiff turned into a raven black mop. He noticed how long his hair really was, without all that product holding it up. It nearly reached down to his shoulders. Something about that made Louis's stomach sizzle.

He uncapped the shampoo bottle and poured some into his hand. The then lathered the translucent blue liquid into Zayn's hair, scrubbing his scalp thoroughly. Zayn made little sighs of content, closing his eyes.

Louis then washed out the shampoo and added some conditioner. He let it set for a bit and grabbed Zayn's hand in his own, attracting his attention.

"You're not wearing your ring," he noted aloud.

Zayn hummed. "Didn't want it to fall out in the bath," he admitted.

Louis looked closely at his ring finger. There was a red band around it as a result from wearing the ring for so long. He brought Zayn's hands up to his lips, kissing the swollen skin.

~

Monday finally came around, which meant it was time to get back to work. Louis and Zayn had a lovely weekend, but sooner or later they had to break free of their paradise land and return to the real world. Although Louis anticipated seeing Harry again, he also feared it- or rather, he feared not being able to control himself.

As the class settled in, Louis switched on the projector, flashing an image of a painting onto the white screen. He turned around to see a classroom of sleepy, college faces. He immediately looked at Harry, who was seated in the back, squinting his eyes at the screen. He seemed to be the only one paying attention in the first place. Louis smiled at him, subconsciously, but then wiped it away when he realized what he was doing.

"Morning class," Louis greeted. They slowly began to lower their voices. "Today we will be starting project number four. Can you believe we're already halfway done with the semester?"

To be honest, Louis couldn't believe it himself.

"Now, this project is about pointillism. Do any of you recognize this work of art?" he asked, gesturing to the image on the screen.

It was  _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte_ , a famous painting by George Seurat. The picture was of a park, with multiple people scattered across the green grass lawn, from ladies with parasols to men with top hats. There was a body of water in the background with boats and a bridge over it. It was beautiful.

A few students had seen it before and, therefore, raised their hands. Not surprisingly, Harry was one of them.

"Does anyone know what's so special about this painting?" Louis continued, raising an eyebrow.

A girl in the front row raised her hand. Louis nodded at her. "Yes, Lauren?"

"It's, like, made up of little dots," she said, but it came out more like a question.

"Correct," Louis said, nodding his head with approval. "This is one of the most well-known examples of pointillism, which just so happens to be your next assignment. You see, pointillism is a technique in which tiny dots of pure color form together to form an entire painting."

"So what are we supposed to do, exactly?" a boy spoke up.

"Good question. To put it simply, you must use pointillism to convey one of your darkest secrets," the professor clarified. "Use thousands of little bits to make up the essence of one giant mistake- be raw and honest. I won't be sharing these with anyone."

He explained that the paint could be found in the cabinet at the front, and that paintbrushes were located in the drawer by the sink. And then they went to work.

As the students moved about, Harry stayed in his seat, almost like a stationary object. He was staring down at his folded hands, lost in his thoughts. Louis, on the other hand, was simply lost at the sight of him. The younger boy was absolutely gorgeous- so much that it burned in the professor's heart.

Harry's hair was in its everyday careless style, hanging in loose curls and messy waves. He was wearing an over sized floral blouse and dark skinny jeans, with leather boots, too. His soft pink lips were pursed together in deep thought.

Louis slowly made his way through his chaotic classroom, heading towards the empty seat next to Harry. He tucked his hands into his pockets and felt a rush of heat to his face. He wasn't sure why, exactly. He'd never been a shy person. He was always loud, outgoing, and straight-forward. That's how he was when he first met Zayn, after all. But something about Harry broke down Louis's confidence. Not in a bad way, it was just- different.

"Mornin'," Louis greeted, voice quiet.

Harry looked up at him, green eyes sparkling. In that moment, Louis's heart skipped a beat.

"I really liked your collage," Louis blabbered, saying the first thing that came to his mind. He instantly regretted it because, in all honestly, it kind of scared him- the whole gun thing. It's not that he was scared of Harry, per se. He was just scared of the mystery behind it.

Harry nodded at him. Louis took that as a 'thank you.' He sighed in relief.

"Can I sit?" Louis asked, motioning to the stool next to him.

Another nod.

The professor grinned and sat next to him, trying to find his confidence. "So," he began and cleared his throat. "How was your weekend?"

Harry shrugged and moved his flat hand back and forth, so-so. Then he raised his eyebrows at Mr. Tomlinson, as if to ask, 'you?'

"Mine?" Louis said, filling in the blanks. "Mine was good. I just spent time at home with my fiance."

Next, Harry did something that caught Louis off guard. He grabbed the older bloke's hand, rolling the pad of his thumb over his engagement ring. He looked closely at it, green marbles narrowing, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth. He must be reading the initials, Louis soon decided, which were engraved into the side of the silver band.

"It's our initials," Louis breathed, still flushing. Harry's hand was still caressing Louis's, softly, and then he pulled it back and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"His name's Zayn," Louis clarified.

Harry's eyes widened a bit. He tilted his head to the side, and then mouthed the word 'his.' Then it occurred to Louis that perhaps he forgot to mention the fact that his fiance was, in fact, a man, which caused him to blush even more. He wasn't sure what he was doing. He was a grown man for crying out loud.

"Uh, yeah. I'm gay," Louis confessed.

Harry blinked at him, slowly, but then comforted Louis's worried look with a smile. He placed his large hand on Louis's knee and squeezed it for a second. It was alright with him. He didn't mind- not one bit.

"We've been engaged for, um, a little over a year now," Louis continued, letting out a puff of air. "He's an art teacher, too, but for kids with disabilities."

Harry smiled and nodded. "Nice," he said, quietly. Louis barely heard his voice. It was so soft and naturally quiet, like a leaf whipping through the breeze, or water lapping on a shore. Every time he spoke, no matter how small the phrase, it took Louis's breath away.

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "It's nice, yeah."

Harry pursed his lips and began to play with his bracelets, one of his many nervous habits. As quiet as Harry was, he didn't like silence, ironically. He liked the sound of cars zooming by, and birds chirping, and music blaring through ear buds. He liked noise because silence often times spoke the truth.

"Did you make those?" Louis chirped, gesturing to his bracelets. They appeared to be home made, with various colors and patterns. Some were zig-zagged, while others were striped. They decorated his ivory wrist with splashes of bright colors.

Harry nodded, smiling proudly.

"They're cute," Louis complimented. "I can't believe you, Styles. You can draw, you can sculpt, you can make beautiful collages, and you can create these pretty bracelets. Is there anything you can't do?"

Harry blushed, bashfully drawing his eyes down to the desk. He shrugged. The professor hooked his arm around his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm expecting a lot from you for this pointillism project, okay? I know you can do it," he encouraged. He stood up from his desk, mumbling something about needing to grade some papers. Giving Harry one last smile, he returned to the front of the room.

Louis felt guilt tug sharply in his stomach. He knew it was just innocent chatter, so why did it feel so wrong?

~

Later, it was an average, lazy evening at the Tomlinson-Malik residence. Zayn was sat in the rocking chair in front of the fireplace, mindlessly drawing in his sketch pad. He gripped the charcoal pencil in his hand and scribbled thoughtless doodles across the paper, eyes squinted in concentration. The only sounds in the room were the pencil scribbling, fireplace crackling, and Louis's phone clicking.

The eldest sat on the sofa, long legs stretched out. His mobile was in his hand as he busied himself texting no other than Harry Styles. He didn't really remember how exactly they began texting back and forth. After class, Harry had sent him a funny picture of Edvard Munch's _The Scream_ , in which the man in the painting was photoshopped with Homer Simpson.

 _Reminded me of you_ , Harry had said.

So now they were just sending each other silly pictures that they found online, most of which had to do with art. Some were random memes and others were artistic puns. The professor giggled in his seat, biting his lip as he typed back a reply.

"What's so funny?" Zayn pondered.

"Nothin'," Louis answered mindlessly, keeping his eyes on his screen.

Zayn paused. "Nothing," he echoed. "Right, okay."

Louis scoffed. "I'm just texting someone. Relax," he began, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. "He just send me somethin' about VanGough cutting off his dick instead of his ear. It was funny."

Zayn popped up his head in confusion. "He?"

"Yeah," Louis said innocently.

"It's Harry, isn't it?"

"Maybe. It's none of your business, Z."

"You're my fiance. It actually is my business."

Louis rolled his eyes. "Fine, yes it's Harry. Why does it matter?"

Zayn rubbed his forehead with frustration "I can't believe you're still talking to him outside of class."

"What's the big deal?" Louis pressed on, raising his voice.

"The big deal is that he's your student, Louis! Why can't you understand how wrong that is?"

"You text people from your work all the time. What's the difference?"

"I text my coworkers," Zayn corrected. "That's different. They're all in their twenties and thirties."

"Whatever." Louis said back, bringing his eyes back to his screen.

Zayn tightened his grip on the chair's armrest, feeling his ring dig sharply into his skin. He shook his head angrily. He felt a mixture of rage and jealousy burn in his chest. He felt like he was losing Louis and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could feel the love of his life slipping through his fingers and it fucking hurt.

"I'm going out," Zayn announced, not being able to stay there much longer. He walked towards the front door and slipped on his coat.

Louis sighed, tilting his head to the side. "C'mon, babe. Don't be like that. It's just texting, I promise."

His fiance didn't say another word. He simply put on his shoes and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Louis rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of annoyance. Zayn would be back in a few hours, hopefully.

~

Mr. Tomlinson didn't like the rain. It was cold, wet, and messed up his hair. So of course, the next morning was no other than dull and rainy. The skies were painted gray and the heavens were sobbing, emptying raindrops into the rundown city streets.

He woke up that morning feeling like rubbish. His throat was sore, body weak, and nose stuffed up. He rolled over in the large bed, letting out a tired groan. To his surprise, the space next to him was still empty. Apparently Zayn hadn't returned the night before like he'd previously thought.

Feeling worried, Louis quickly reached over to grab his phone. No messages and no missed calls. He felt his heart beating faster in his chest. He grabbed his glasses off of his bedside table and hurriedly got out of bed, throwing the thick blankets and sheets aside.

"Zayn?" he called out, trying to find his balance.

Louis rushed into the bathroom, but it was empty. He proceeded to the kitchen and dining room, but found nobody there. He ran into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks. There Zayn was asleep, or rather passed out, on the couch. He had an empty beer bottle held loosely in his hand.

Louis shook his shoulder. "Zayn, wake up."

His jolted awake, eyes instantly falling on Louis. "Wha'?" he said sleepily, squinting. The light was too bright.

"Where the Hell did you go last night?" Louis demanded. "I went to sleep thinking that you'd come back but you never did."

Zayn sighed tiredly. "I'm here now, aren't I?" he said slowly.

"You smell like weed and alcohol," Louis said, disgusted. "What happened last night?"

"I went out-"

"Out where?" Louis drawled.

Zayn groaned, obviously hungover. "To a friend's house, alright?"

"And what the fuck is this?" Louis said loudly, pointing to the white bandage on Zayn's forearm. "Did you get another tattoo while you were drunk and high?"

"Huh?" Zayn said confusedly. He glanced down at his arm, remembering the events from the night before. It was mostly a blur, but he did recall that bit. "Oh, right," he said, holding up his arm to get a better look.

Louis peeled back the bandage. Beneath it, the skin was swollen and red. The tattoo was of a small key, about the size of a golf ball. Written next to the key was "forever" in pretty, cursive writing. Louis blinked silently.

"What the Hell, Zayn?" he asked angrily. "I can't believe you. I text a student of mine, so you go out and recklessly get a tattoo? What is your problem? Are you seriously  _that_  insecure about our relationship?"

Zayn closed his eyes, rubbing his temples tiredly. "Lower your voice," he snarled. "I have a headache."

"That's your own fault!" Louis shouted. "Fuck it. It's like I'm talking to a brick wall. I have to get ready for work."

Needless to say, it was a rough morning.

~

Mr. Tomlinson was a wreck at the university. He sat in his classroom at his desk, head buried in his arms. He hated fighting with Zayn. He especially hated leaving a fight unresolved. But he was just so angry and frustrated beyond comprehension. He loved Zayn's free spirit, but sometimes his immaturity angered him.

He hated this. He hated how their relationship was falling apart. A few months prior, before this semester began, they were the happiest couple ever. All their friends were jealous of their love. But now, it was like they barely knew each other.

Louis knew he had to pull himself together. After all, his class would begin in a matter of minutes. But he was just tired and angry and upset, so teaching was the last thing on his mind.

Suddenly, Louis felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see Harry there, looking rather concerned. He was the first to arrive to class, which wasn't exactly unusual for the studious lad. His messy hair was tied back with a bandanna, and he was wearing a heart patterned shirt, skinny jeans, and sparkly boots. He had a messenger bag at his side, filled with notebooks and art supplies. Louis felt his heart race at the very sight of him.

"Oops," Harry said under his breath.

"Hi," Louis answered with a smile. "It's okay, Harry. I wasn't sleeping- just resting, is all."

Harry nodded. He returned the smile and held out his hand, revealing what was inside. Tucked in his palm was a homemade bracelet, in a zig-zag pattern, colored like a rainbow, of course. It was obviously made with care, for each bit of string looked neat and tidy.

"That's pretty," Louis said breathlessly. "Is it for me?"

Harry nodded.

"Thank you," Louis grinned.

Before he could grab it, Harry reached for his wrist and put it on for him. His long, nimble fingers tied it securely around the professor's wrist. The rainbow colors contrasted against his tanned skin. Louis watched Harry's hands and the bracelet in awe.

"I really appreciate this," Louis admitted, sighing. "I had a rough morning, but this bracelet made me feel a tad better."

Harry frowned, as if to say 'I'm sorry.'

"I'm fine," Louis lied. "I just had a little argument with Zayn."

Harry bit his lip as a few more students filed into the classroom. Then he gestured back to his desk in the back of the room, giving him an apologetic frown.

"Yeah, you should probably get to work on your project," Louis huffed. "Thanks again for the bracelet."

The professor spent the remainder of the hour constantly checking his phone and fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist. Perhaps he was starting to pick up Harry's nervous habit, too.

~

When Louis returned home that night, Zayn was already packing his things. Louis began to panic as soon as he walked in the door, thinking that he was trying to move out. He was in their bedroom, shoving his clothes into a small suitcase. Louis's breath caught in his throat.

"What are you doing?" he said sharply.

Zayn threw a careless glance over his shoulder. "Oh, you're home already," he noted, tossing a t-shirt into his bag.

"Why are you packing your clothes?" Louis demanded.

"Because," Zayn sighed, closing the lid to his suitcase. He clicked it shut. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Louis said, worried. "Where?"

"Look, obviously we need some time apart," Zayn breathed, standing up with his suitcase held securely in his hand.

"No, no, no," Louis said, feeling tears welt up in his eyes. He walked closer to him and grabbed his spare hand, holding it in his own. He felt a lump grow in his throat. "Please don't go. We can work this out."

Zayn gulped and took back his hand sharply, frowning. "Only for a few days," he promised. "I think we both need to figure some things out."

Louis shook his head, feeling a single tear drip down his cheek. "There's nothing to figure out! I love you, and you love me, and we're getting married, and-"

"We've been fighting a lot lately," Zayn interrupted, eyes falling down to the floor. He didn't want to see Louis cry. As angry as they both were, neither of them wanted to see the other hurting.

"That's what couples do! They fight and then make up!" Louis rambled desperately.

"Yes, but not like this," Zayn said quietly, shaking his head.

Louis's bottom lip wobbled. He hooked his fingers underneath Zayn's chin, lifting up his face. Zayn's chestnut brown eyes met with Louis's sapphire blues, connecting like magnets.

"Please don't leave," he squeaked.

"Only for a few days, to clear our heads," Zayn said persistently. "I'm sorry."

"Where are you going?" Louis pressed on.

Zayn paused. "Liam's."

"Liam?" Louis said, eyes widening. "As in your ex-boyfriend? Are you fucking kidding me?"

His feelings switched from sadness to anger at the sound of a single name.

"Liam's not my ex-boyfriend," Zayn said, exasperated.

"But you hooked up a few times before you and I got together and-"

"He was just experimenting with me, alright? He has a wife now called Sophia."

Louis scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, and  _that's_  supposed to make it okay?" he said rhetorically.

"You're such a hypocrite," Zayn snarled. "If I can trust you hanging out with one of your students, you should be able to trust me for a few days with Liam."

"But I never had sex with Harry!" Louis nearly screamed, curling his fists.

"Yeah, that's what you keep tellin' me. But it's hard to tell what's the truth," Zayn replied.

Louis furrowed his brow. "You think I've been sleeping with a nineteen year old!? You're ridiculous!"

"Am I?"

"Yes!" Louis shouted, shoving Zayn. He stumbled backwards a bit but retained his balance. "Y'know what? Leave! Get the fuck out of here!" he continued, pointing his finger into his chest.

And so without another word, Zayn left. He even left his engagement ring on the bedside table.

~

Louis didn't go to work the next day, or the day after that. He felt too miserable and angry and sad. He missed Zayn's warm embrace, and the way he made him tea in the morning, and how he used to sing in the shower, filling their house with beautiful tunes. He missed everything about him. His calls went unanswered. He even tried contacting Zayn's work, but they said he was busy.

Harry tried texting Louis multiple times, worried about his absence. The professor never replied to him, though. He was too busy mulling around his house, getting high in an attempt to forget about Zayn.

He went to the university on Friday, though, because that was the day the fourth project was due. He needed to be present to collect their pointillism assignments.

He came to work in joggers and a t-shirt. Casual Friday, he decided. He looked miserable as he walked in the door, carrying a coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. He never let his mobile leave his side. He was constantly checking it for a call or text from Zayn. Some would call him desperate, but he was simply heartbroken, craving the touch of his fiance's fingertips.

He had bags underneath his eyes and a full beard on his face from his lack of shaving. He looked like a completely different person.

He still had that rainbow bracelet on his wrist, though. In fact, he never took it off- not even in the shower.

Harry looked concerned when he walked into class that day, after not speaking to Louis for two days. He stepped up to Louis's desk with wide eyes, as if to ask 'where have you been?' Louis, however, chose to ignore it.

"Hello Harry," the professor greeted, clearing his throat.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again like a fish out of water.

"Have you finished your project?" Louis asked.

Harry blinked and then shook his head, no.

"Well," Louis coughed. "You better get to work, yeah?"

Harry nodded and then walked towards his desk in the back of the classroom, head hung low. He couldn't help but wonder what he did wrong.

At the end of the class, the students turned in the works of pointillism. They placed them on Louis's desk as they left. Mr. Tomlinson just sat there, miserably, and repeatedly told them to have a good weekend.

Like usual, Harry was the last to turn his in. He looked incredibly guilty as he placed his art on top of the thick stack of papers. Louis wanted to tell him that he didn't do anything wrong, and that he shouldn't feel bad because this isn't his fault, but he didn't know where to begin.

"Thank you, Harry," Louis said, giving him a wave.

Harry didn't say anything or wave back. He simply nodded before leaving the class.

Louis's eyes instantly fell to Harry's project, like a routine. He picked up the large paper, holding it gently as if it could possibly shatter. The picture was composed of thousands of ink dots, condensed in some areas and spread apart in others. Upon further analysis, Louis realized that the image was a gravestone. There were trees in the background and a fence, too.

There were other gravestones in the background, too, but the main focus was on the one in the foreground. It was a simple tombstone, but the writing was difficult to decipher, considering this was pointillism after all. He drew flowers on the grass next to it, several of them, as if someone had been repeatedly leaving them there.

He soon realized that he knew exactly where this specific graveyard was. It was actually on his route home. He passed by it every single day.

Perhaps Harry wanted Louis to recognize it. Maybe this pointillism project was just another piece of the puzzle. So Louis immediately gathered his things and left the university, deciding to take the rest of the day off.

~

When Louis arrived at the graveyard, he felt his stomach drop. He didn't know why the thought of death made him so uncomfortable. It was something about the uncertainty of death. One day he could never wake up, and that thought absolutely terrified him. Perhaps it was also the idea of dying alone. So many of the tombs there were crumbling, falling apart, without anyone to fix them. It was a sea of forgotten souls.

He wasn't sure why he was there, exactly. Something about Harry's project seemed to drag him to the graveyard, like a siren luring a sailor. He had Harry's project folded up in his pocket, so he took it out, unfolding it like a map. He stepped out of his car and walked up to the graveyard's fence, shoes clicking against the pavement.

The cemetery was fairly large, with a black fence surrounding it, exactly like the one in Harry's drawing. It was practically a spitting image. He walked past the fence, searching for that specific gravestone. It had to be important to Harry in order for him to include it in his project. Perhaps finding it would help clear up the mystery of his previous projects, too.

Louis examined the gravestone's shape, and noticed its unique round top, as well as the multiple flower bouquets in front of it. He searched all around, stepping through the tall grass. Apparently it hadn't been cut in a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis caught a burst of color among the dull green grass. He squinted his eyes and walked towards it. He felt the wet ground squish beneath his feet with every step. He held up the pointillism paper, using it as a guide.

Eventually, Mr. Tomlinson found himself standing in front of a gravestone- the same one as in the drawing. A mountain of flowers laid out in front of it, just like in the picture. They seemed to be fairly new, for they were still perky and brightly colored. Unlike the other abandoned headstones, this one seemed to be kept nicely. Louis narrowed his eyes and read the words carved into its marble surface.

_Anne Styles_

_21 October 1968 - 4 January 2000_

"I knew you'd find it," a deep voice said from behind Louis.

The professor turned around, and he had to blink a few times, just to make sure he was seeing things correctly. He couldn't believe his eyes or his ears. Standing there was Harry himself, arms crossed over his chest. This was the first time Louis had ever heard him speak more than one word at a time. His voice sounded beautiful strung together in a sentence.

"Harry," Louis said breathlessly. "Where did you come from?"

Harry shrugged. "I walk here every day after school," he admitted.

Louis chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I see," he nodded. "Your pointillism was beautiful. Mind telling me what this all means?"

Harry smiled and nodded. "C'mon," he said, gesturing for the professor to follow. "Let me tell you a story."


	6. take a picture of your favorite place

Everything turned grey. The sky's dull clouds parted, letting cold rain trickle from the saddened heavens. Gloomy tombstones scattered across the graveyard, some crumbled from old age, others freshly carved. Weeds and tall grasses swallowed countless forgotten souls, withering away in the unforgiving dirt. Harry stood there motionless, just as somber and lonely as the bodies beneath the soil.

Louis and Harry began walking along the beaten path that snaked throughout the graveyard. Loose stones and muddy puddles stood in their way, making it an obstacle course. Harry didn't particularly enjoy coming here, but something about it felt magical— like he could still feel his mother in the air, in the wind, in the rain, beneath his feet.

"I don't want you to think I'm weird," Harry said abruptly.  He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Louis shook his head. "I don't."

"It's just— all those cryptic art projects. I was afraid they'd scare you off."

Louis laughed softly. "They didn't scare me. They intrigued me," he confessed. "Most students just put dots on paper for credit, but not you. You're special."

Harry kicked a stray pebble with his boot. "Thanks, I think."

"And for the record, you're the most talented student I've ever had the pleasure of teaching," the professor insisted.

Harry's eyes lit up. "Well, I have a great teacher."

"I won't argue with that."

Harry chuckled, his deep laughter rattling in his throat. "I'm glad you recognized this place, y'know? I was afraid my pointillism was off."

"No, your pointillism was on point," Louis snickered, elbowing Harry playfully.

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. "That was  _awful_ , Mr. Tomlinson."

" 'm sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood."

Harry nodded understandingly. He looked around the perimeter of the cemetery, admiring the black fencing. Vines crawled up its posts, spreading like an infectious disease. The climbing plants withered in the cold breeze.

"So," Harry drawled, "about that story I wanted to tell you."

Louis breathed deeply. "Yeah, I'm all ears."

The youngest cleared his throat. He didn't tell this story often, mainly because he usually refrained from trusting others. But something about Mr. Tomlinson pulled him in like a magnet, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free.

"My mother passed away when I was six," Harry began, his voice low. Louis could barely hear him over the harsh wind. "She was shot in the chest and died instantly. It happened just like that," he continued, snapping his fingers.

Louis chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry," he said at loss of words.

"It was my fault, though," Harry vowed, and now his voice was cracking, stumbling over his words. "My father was a drug addict. He hurt my mum and sister a lot, but he usually left me alone. And one night, my mother forgot to pay the bills, and he hit her— a lot. She began to lose consciousness."

Louis felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't imagine a young child watching something so horrific, so brutal, so tragic. No wonder it left a scar on his happiness.

"And so, that night, I made a mistake," Harry continued, tears gathering in his emerald eyes. "I never meant to hurt her. I didn't— I just wanted to help. My father kept a gun in the house, and at the time I didn't know how dangerous they were. I pointed it at my dad to scare him off, so he'd stop beating my mother, but then— then my finger slipped on the trigger."

Louis's heart dropped. His mind couldn't even process the information, like a computer buffering. Silence filled his lips.

"My aim was off," Harry said, gulping his nervousness, "and I shot my mother in the chest."

The professor gave him a consoling frown. "I'm so sorry that happened, Harry. I don't know—"

"Please don't pity me," Harry begged. "I didn't tell you that story so you'd feel sorry for me, or whatever. I just— I feel like I can trust you for some reason. I've only ever told that story to my family and close friends."

Louis felt warm suddenly, flushed with content. Harry trusted him. He wasn't just a professor to him; he was a friend, or at least an acquaintance. That was a small step in the right direction.

"I'm not trying to pity you," Louis clarified, "but you shouldn't feel guilty for what happened, alright? You were only six years old. Normal kids that age can barely write proper sentences, let alone understand how a gun works. Your father was the one at fault."

Harry bit his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth. "I know. It's just haunted me all my life."

Louis's shoes crunched over the blanket of fallen leaves. "What happened after your mother passed away, if you don't mind me asking," he pressed on.

"My father went to jail for drug possession and stuff," Harry said dismissively. "I shut people out after that. I'm not— I'm not mute, or whatever. I just don't talk to strangers because I'm afraid of hurting other people... and other people hurting me, too."

"But you're talking to me."

" 'cause I trust you," Harry hummed. "I don't trust easily."

Louis chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Who'd you live with, then? After your mother passed away and your father went to jail," he asked.

"My sister, Gemma, was ten years old at the time, so we both moved in with my aunt and uncle. After Gem turned eighteen and could legally be my guardian, it became just the two of us."

"And you've been living with her ever since?"

Harry nodded. "I still do. We live down the street from here. It's nice, because it's within walking distance of the cemetery  _and_ the university."

"That's lovely," Louis said with a soft grin. "I'd love to meet your sister someday."

"She'd love to meet you, too," Harry admitted. "I talk about you a lot."

Louis quirked an eyebrow. "You do?"

The redness in Harry's chapped lips traveled up to his cheeks. He fiddled nervously with his sweater paws. "I— that sounded really creepy. I didn't mean it like that," he rambled.

Louis laughed softly, giving Harry a comforting pat on the back. " 's alright. I'm glad you can't get enough of me," he teased.

Harry giggled. He actually  _giggled_. Louis's insides turned into gooey fondness. Harry's smile was so bright, with shiny white teeth and piercing dimples and plump, pink lips. And his hair looked so fluffy and soft, wisping through the chilly air. Mr. Tomlinson could look at him forever, as obsessive as that may sound.

"I just mean, like, I've mentioned you a few times," Harry elaborated.

Louis hummed. "All good things?"

"Of course," Harry said immediately, as if it was obvious. "You made me realize that it's okay to express my feelings through art, I suppose. That sounds really pathetic, but—"

"It's sweet," Louis interrupted, "and I should thank you, too. I think you've reignited my passion for teaching."

"Reignited passion?" Harry said, eyebrows raised. "Sounds naughty."

Louis nearly choked on his own tongue. "Oh my god," he breathed, shaking his head. "What happened to the shy, cute boy in my art class?"

The word 'cute' slipped past his mouth before he could stop himself. He froze instantaneously, his mind flying in a million different directions.  _Shit, shit, shit,_ he said to himself. What did he get himself into? Quietness beat between them for one, two, three seconds.

Either Harry didn't hear it, or he just didn't care— much to Louis's relief.

"I'm still the same lad," Harry promised. "I've just got a voice."

The professor tried to suppress his fondness. "I quite like your voice," he said genuinely.

"I'm glad you do," Harry chuckled. "I don't use it often." He ruffled through his long hair, curling his fingers through his natural waves, interlaced with the occasional ringlet. He tucked it behind his ear.

Louis smiled fondly. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Play with your hair so much."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. It's a nervous habit, I suppose."

"I make you nervous?" Louis smirked.

Harry held up his fingers, catching an inch of air between his index and thumb. "Just a bit," he assured.

Louis laughed as he looked up towards the sky. The sun had begun to sink into the horizon, leaving streaks of pinks and oranges in its path. The clouds now resembled cotton candy, and the rain seemed sweeter, less bitter. It dissolved into a slow, misty drizzle.

" 's getting late," Louis noted. "I should head home."

"Oh, right," Harry murmured, face scrunching in confusion. "I lost track of time. Gem's probably worried sick."

Louis gestured back towards his car, which he'd parked on the side of the road in front of the cemetery. "You want a ride home?" he offered.

Harry shook his head. "No, I don't want to keep you waiting. You've got a fiance to get home to, yeah?" he teased, winking. "Besides, I don't mind walking."

The word 'fiance' rung in Louis's ears. He'd be returning to an empty house, all alone, sleeping in a bed meant for two. The pain still felt raw, like a fresh wound, and every time he thought about Zayn his misery cut deeper.

"Right," Louis mumbled, not wanting to get into the details. "I'll see you in class Monday?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "Of course."

Louis's blood boiled with anticipation. The very thought of Harry, of spending more time with Harry, of talking with Harry, sent him into a dreamlike daze.

"Alright. Text me if you need anything," he reminded with a wave goodbye.

As he climbed in his car and began driving home, to a desolate house, loneliness settled in his broken heart.

౦౦౦

Silence filled the Tomlinson-Malik residence. Louis walked in his— _their_ — front door to find nothing but emptiness. Part of him had been hoping to find Zayn sitting there on the sofa with apologies flooding out of his mouth, but no. Nothing but dust and the lingering scents of smoke and candles.

He kicked off his shoes in the foyer, nudging them next to Zayn's ever-growing pile of combat boots. He saw pieces of Zayn everywhere he looked. The graffiti art pieces on the walls, the overflowing ashtray, the countless picture frames, and the dark rings on the table from Zayn neglecting to use a coaster, despite Louis's constant nagging. Everything screamed Zayn's name.

Louis sat down on the couch, stretching out his legs, and perched his feet on the opposite armrest. He checked his phone and scrolled through his notifications. He ignored the e-mails from the university because, honestly, work was the least of his worries right now. He'd received a few texts from his mother, and one from his best friend, Niall, but none from Zayn. It was like he'd vanished off the face of the earth. Was he really that  _easy_ to forget?

Almost on cue, his phone beeped, making its electronic 'ding' noise. He narrowed his eyes at the glowing screen.

_Thank you for listening to my story today. x H_

౦౦౦

To be honest, Louis didn't know much about photography, but the university required it in the art curriculum. He'd always been a paint-and-brush kind of man, but alas, he had no choice. So throughout the weekend, he researched famous photographers, different stylistic techniques, filters, lighting, etc. He researched until his knuckles ached from typing and his eyes hurt from reading.

On Monday morning, the professor walked into class with bits of information and facts drilled into his brain. As soon as he began setting up the projector, untangling the knotted cables, his students started filling their seats. He'd been up late planning the lesson and creating a bullshit powerpoint presentation. He now stared at his computer screen with half-hooded eyelids, clinging to his coffee like some magical healing potion.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around in his chair to see Harry standing there, cheeky grin spread across his lips. His hands were tucked inside his oversized sweater sleeves, and he wore dark skinny jeans that made his legs look even longer than usual. A purple bandana kept his hair out of his face, revealing a pair of light green eyes.

"Harry," Louis said breathlessly. "Goodmorning."

" 'mornin," he said groggily. "How 're you?"

"I'm fine. A bit tired. You?"

Harry shrugged in response.

"New project starts today," Mr. Tomlinson hummed, eyes flickering back to his computer.

Harry nodded eagerly. " 'm excited."

"And you should be. I've loved all your assignments thus far."

Harry bit his lip shyly. "Well, I've got a great teacher."

"Please, Styles. I've done absolutely nothing; it's your natural talent," he insisted.

Harry's cheeks filled with a pinkish tint. He nodded, as if to say 'thanks,' and then went to his seat in the back of the classroom. Louis watched him out of the corner of his eye. He sat down and placed his green, canvas rucksack on the floor. He unzipped the front pocket and fished through a sea of uncapped pens and dull pencils. Eventually, he found a purple pen and set it on his desk, next to a worn-out notebook. Random doodles and inspirational quotes had been scribbled across its cover, decorated with rips and tears.

After the class settled in, Louis clapped his hands to gather their attention.

"Welcome back," he greeted, looking out to a group of sleepy uni students. "I hope you've all had a good weekend."

The only response was a chorus of groans.

Louis chuckled to himself. "I'm glad you all love my class so dearly," he said sarcastically. He gestured back towards the projector screen, which displayed a collage of various photographs. Some were iconic, others quite unpopular.

"Now, photography has been around for ages," the professor began, pacing across the tiled floors. "Any guesses as to how old the world's earliest surviving camera photo is?"

A few students raised their hands. Louis pointed to a girl with light purple hair and blue eyes. A layer of plum-coloured lipstick coated her lips.

"1861?" she guessed.

Louis shook his head. "No, but close. That's when the first  _colour_ photograph was taken; however, black and white was around long before that. Any other guesses?"

Alas, Harry raised his hand, but Louis hesitated to call on him. Would he be able to speak in front of the class without stuttering or choking? Unfortunately, no one else seemed to have an answer. Mr. Tomlinson had no choice, really.

"Yes, Harry?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

Harry took his time answering. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and his tongue darted out for a second. The words stuck to his cheeks.

"Harry?" Louis repeated, hoping to snap him out of his mute daze.

"Erm," Harry murmured quietly, his voice barely audible. "1826?"

Louis grinned. He wondered what other random trivia facts Harry kept harbored in his brain. His intelligence and wit never failed to impress.

"Correct," Louis confirmed with a short nod. "Now, class, I'm going to be honest. I'm not an expert photographer. I don't know all the techniques or whatever. To be honest, I just use my iPhone to take pictures, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the artform. So this assignment will be a bit laidback."

His eyes flickered back to the screen. Dozens of photographs, ranging from the works of Dorothea Lange to Richard Avedon, illustrated a wide range of skills.

"Here is your only instruction: take a picture of your favorite place— somewhere that makes you feel free, happy, peaceful. Somewhere with emotion. And, please, don't just turn in your favorite selfie. I'll be grading these on Friday."

A few students chuckled, including Harry. He cracked that legendary smile, where his lips open wide, his dimples poke out, his mouth curls, and he covers it with his adorable sweater paws, laughing into his hand. Louis looked at him with awe. He was a true masterpiece.

"Alright, so... any questions?" the professor inquired, looking around the large classroom. Silence echoed back at him. "Get to work, then. See me if you have any questions."

As soon as his students began to buzz around, conversations sparking between them, Louis felt himself drawn back to Harry's desk. He felt too weak to turn away. His mind was floating, getting higher with every step.

"So," Louis began and cleared his throat, "any ideas so far?"

Harry shook his head and held his index finger against his lips.

"It's a secret, yeah?"

Harry nodded. "Top secret," he affirmed.

Louis paused for a second. Everything about him seemed so secretive, so mysterious. Despite the fact that he'd recently opened up to him about his past, he still felt intrigued, craving to know even  _more_. Perhaps he was just nosy, but he wanted to know every little fact about his life.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He mumbled a quiet apology as he looked at the screen. A picture of Zayn's face popped up: 'incoming call.' Louis felt his heart thud in his chest.

"Um, excuse me. I've got to take this."

He scurried over to his desk at the front of the classroom. He sat down in his spinny chair and slid his thumb over to answer. He tried to block out the chatty students.

" 'ello?" Louis said eagerly.

A few seconds of silence ticked between them. Louis could feel the tension hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

"Hey, Louis," Zayn replied, his voice crackly. "How're you?"

Louis gulped. "How am I? I'm— I'm okay, I suppose," he stuttered, not sure of how to answer. He wasn't okay, though. 

"That's good," Zayn murmured. "So, listen. I've been... thinkin' a lot, whilst I've been staying with Liam and Sophia. They're proper married now, and they're so happy together, and I just... I want that to be us, y'know?"

Louis's hands tightly clutched his phone. "Yeah, I know. I want that, too."

He heard Zayn sigh softly. "I just want you to know that I don't, like,  _not_ trust you around other lads. I guess I was just jealous. I mean, it doesn't matter anymore, as long as you're not still seeing Harry outside of class."

Louis froze. In that moment, he faced a predicament: to lie or tell the truth. He was still seeing Harry outside of class, but it was innocent, friendly, completely platonic.

"About that," Louis drawled, scratching the back of his neck. "Harry and I— we're mates, you know? I don't want you to be upset, but—"

"How do you expect me to be okay with this?" Zayn huffed, cutting him off. "He's your  _student_ , Louis. It's completely inappropriate. I don't see my students outside of class, and I expect you to do the same."

Louis glanced back towards Harry, who sat at his desk, scribbling across that tattered notebook. His hair hung like a curtain in front of his face as he looked downwards, and his green eyes pierced the paper. The professor bit his lip, still holding his phone near his ear.

"You there? Louis?"

"Yeah," Louis breathed. " 'm still here. I just— I don't understand why you're so upset. If I say there's nothing going on, then there's  _nothing_ going on."

Zayn scoffed. "Yeah, maybe to you. But what if it means something to Harry? Maybe he's trying to seduce you in order to get a good fucking grade. You're so oblivious, Lou."

"Seduce me? For fuck's sake, Zayn. Ever consider the fact that he genuinely enjoys my company?"

Zayn barked up a laugh. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," Louis said, voice sharp and firm. "Harry's my  _friend_ , whether you like it or not. We talk about art and his personal problems, but that's  _it._ He doesn't have many people in his life to support him. So screw me for trying to be a nice person."

"That's the thing, Lou. You're  _too_ nice, and it blinds your judgement. Not everyone has good intentions, unfortunately."

"Like you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You left me, Zayn. You gave up and took a break without trying to talk things through. You  _knew_ staying with Liam would hurt me, and you still did it," Louis said, lowering his voice a bit.  He wanted to keep quiet because he really didn't want to disturb his students during work time.  

 Zayn paused. "Yeah? So how does it feel when I spend time with someone you don't trust?" he questioned, a hint of irony in his voice.

"Whatever," Louis snapped, "I don't care anymore. Come home when you're ready."

He hung up and tossed his phone carelessly across his desk, atop a messy pile of papers. He then crossed his arms and ducked his head, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

౦౦౦

Later that evening, Louis returned to the familiar emptiness of his home. The air felt cold, so he switched on the heaters, filling the house with an intermittent buzz. He stepped into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. He carded through half-empty bags of crisps, random cans, and scattered biscuits. Usually Zayn was the one who did all the shopping.

He settled for a can of chicken noodle soup. He turned on the stove and poured it into a pot. The chunky liquid simmered on the hob.

He truly missed Zayn's cooking. He missed his classic grilled cheese sandwiches, his traditional Arabic meals, his scrambled eggs, his  _everything_.

Louis ate in silence. He stared at the blank kitchen walls, slurping the broth from a metal spoon. He craved affection. He craved conversation. He craved the gentle touch of human hands, lips, and skin. Loneliness began to consume his body. He felt half-empty without Zayn there by his side.

He glanced down at his engagement ring. He thought back to their partially developed wedding plans. Louis wanted to get married at a vineyard in the country, while Zayn wanted a wedding on the beach, so they compromised for a vineyard that had a view of a beach. Their tuxedos were matching, and Louis had chosen a blue tie because, according to Zayn, it made his beautiful eyes pop.

Louis smiled at the memory. He'd dreamt about his wedding day for years. He couldn't wait to become Louis William Tomlinson-Malik, forever holding that name like a permanent tattoo. But perhaps that day would never come.

Having finished his soup, Louis placed the empty bowl in the sink. It clattered loudly atop a pile of dirty forks, spoons, plates, and cups. He then proceeded to the bathroom, deciding to take a well-needed shower. His feet padded softly against the white tiled floors.

He reached into the shower and switched on the water, turning the knob towards the red 'H.' As the air began to steam up, he took off his clothes, kicking them towards the hamper in the corner. He peeled back the blue curtain and stepped inside, lifting his legs over the tub's walls. His feet squished against a soft shower mat, decorated with yellow duckies.

Louis let the hot water trickle down his back, relaxing his tense muscles. His shoulders slumped with comfort. He reached over to grab the shower gel—  _Zayn's_ shower gel— and lathered up his chest. The suds traveled slowly down his torso, curving around his chiseled abdomen. It smelled dark and musky, kinda like pine needles, and it reminded him of his fiance.

" _Something always brings me back to you,_ " Louis hummed, his voice echoing in the small bathroom. He could barely hear his own singing voice over the loud shower, but he didn't mind. " _It never takes too long. No matter what I say or do, I'll still feel you here 'till the moment I'm gone."_

Louis inhaled a sharp breath, his lungs filling with steamy air. " _You hold me without touch; you keep me without chains. I never wanted anything so much, than to drown in your love and not feel the rain._ "

Before Louis could continue the song, a familiar voice cut him off.

" _Set me free, leave me be. I don't wanna fall another moment into your gravity._ "

Louis gasped and peeled back the shower curtain. There stood Zayn, smirking, holding a hand on his hip. Louis blinked a few times and wondered if it was all a hallucination.

"Zayn?" Louis choked out, using the curtain to cover his naked body. "What are you doing here?!"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You said to come home whenever I'm ready," he reminded. "And you've got a lovely singing voice, by the way. I know I tell you that all the time, but it's true."

Louis shook his head in annoyance and switched off the shower. He wordlessly stepped over the tub and snatched up a stray towel. He wrapped it firmly around his waist.

"You could've rang beforehand," Louis growled, running his fingers through his wet hair. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"I'm sorry, love," Zayn chuckled.

"Oh, so 'm your love now?"

"C'mon, Lou. Don't be like that."

Louis pointed a finger into his chest, right between his angel wings tattoos. "Y'know what, Zayn? I'm angry at you, but I'm mostly angry at myself for missing you. You don't give a shit about me," he spat.

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the loo. Zayn followed closely behind, sighing with exasperation.

"How can you even say that?" Zayn called after him.

"Say what? The truth?" Louis hissed, stepping into their messy bedroom. He dropped the towel from his waist and pulled on a pair of boxers. The thin fabric clung to his wet skin.

"No," Zayn shouted and grabbed Louis's shoulder to spin him around. "How can you say I don't care about you? After all we've done together? Louis, we're  _family_  now. You can't get rid of me. I fucking love you."

"Then why'd you leave me?" Louis yelled, veins protruding angrily from his neck. "Why'd you hurt me like this?"

Zayn shook his head. "That wasn't my intention, Lou. I just needed to clear my thoughts, alright? I was jealous!"

Louis swore under his breath because, fuck, he was definitely crying now. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to show his underlying weakness, vulnerability, and desperation. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.

"Baby," Zayn breathed, "please don't cry. I—"

"Stop," Louis interrupted, voice shaking. "Just tell me one thing. Do you still wanna get married? Because you left your bloody ring here before you left." He gestured to the bedside table where Zayn's engagement ring sat, next to half-burned candles and a flashing alarm clock.

Zayn stepped closer and picked it up. He twirled the silver band around his finger. "I'm sorry. It's just— I was trying to give you a taste of your own medicine," he confessed.

"What the hell does that mean?"

His chestnut eyes fell to the floor. "Last month you went to work, and you—you left your engagement ring on your dresser. You didn't wear it for an entire week. I didn't confront you about it, because I was scared, but I noticed. I thought you took it off so Harry wouldn't know you're engaged, and I thought— I thought you were cheating," he rambled.

Louis paused. His lips parted, and he wanted to say something, but he couldn't quite choke out the words. He silently grabbed Zayn's tattooed hands, holding them securely in his own. He pressed a soft kiss to his olive skin.

"I'm so sorry," Louis huffed. "Why didn't you ask me about it? Harry knows I'm engaged, Zayn. I told him."

Zayn sniffled. "You did?  Then why'd you take it off?"

"I was teaching a pottery class that week," Louis said honestly. "I didn't want to ruin the ring with clay, y'know?"

"Really?"

"Really."

Zayn blinked away his tears. "I didn't want it to be true. I couldn't stand the thought of you cheating on me," he said.

Louis sighed and cupped his sharp jawline, rubbing his thumb over his stubbly cheek. He slowly brought his face closer, until their noses tapped, and their lips inched closer together. He kissed him gently at first, as if Zayn was made of fragile glass. His breath tasted familiar, like smoke and mint gum. Louis nudged his tongue past his plump lips, past his silver lip ring. Zayn hummed deep in his throat as he nibbled on Louis's bottom lip.

"I missed you," Louis whispered against his mouth.

Zayn's hands traveled down Louis's water-covered torso, landing firmly on his hips. His touch seemed to dissolve all his worries. They stumbled blindly towards the bed.

"I missed you more."

౦౦౦

Louis awoke the next morning to the sound of curtains sliding open and bright light blinding him. He grumbled irritably and covered his eyes with his bicep. He felt like he barely got ten minutes of sleep. The lack of rest plagued his body with soreness.

"Morning, sunshine," Zayn greeted, sitting at the edge of the bed. He patted Louis's plump tummy. "Wake up, babe. We've both gotta work today."

Louis groaned. "Can I call in sick?" he begged.

Zayn furrowed his eyebrows and pressed the back of his hand to Louis's forehead. "You don't feel sick," he noted.

Louis looked up at his fiance through his fluttering eyelashes. "I feel miserable. My arse hurts and 'm pretty sure I pulled somethin' in my back," he complained.

Zayn chuckled. "That's your fault, love. You're the one who wanted round three last night," he said with a wink. "I'm afraid you still have to go to the university."

"I hate you."

"I love you, too."

౦౦౦

Louis arrived to class that day with a half-empty cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge and a loopy smile on his face. His shoes clicked across the floor before taking his seat at his desk. He opened up his laptop whilst his students started to arrive. The MacBook buzzed loudly as it booted up.

He heard a finger tap his desk. He looked up, startled, to find Harry. He smiled with amusement. None of his other students seemed to care about Louis on a personal level. They only cared about passing the class, but Harry always went out of his way to start a conversation, even if verbal communication made him uncomfortable. Louis's heart swelled.

"Oh, hello," the professor greeted, giving him a small wave. "Good morning. How are you?"

Harry shrugged. "Fine. You?"

"I'm great, actually. How's your project coming along? Any ideas so far?"

He tapped his skull. "I've got something in mind, but... you'll have to wait 'till Friday."

"Oh? I see how it is, Styles. Still keeping secrets," he chuckled.

"Not secrets— just surprises."

"Ah, alright. Well I can't wait to see what you come up with."

Harry laughed softly, bits of hair falling in front of his face. He tucked it behind his ear. "So listen," he began, voice low. "Do you wanna do somethin' with me tomorrow?"

Louis paused. "Like what?"

"Well, there's this art museum downtown. One of my mates has an exhibit opening there tomorrow, and so he gave me two tickets for free, but I don't have anyone to go with," he said, voice fading at the end. He raised his eyebrows as he reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets.

Mr. Tomlinson glanced at his hand. "What about your sister or summat?" he suggested, feeling apprehensive.

"Gemma isn't interested in artsy stuff."

Louis bit his lip. "What time?"

"Whenever you're not busy. It's open from ten to eight."

The professor carded through his memory, trying to recall if he had any plans the following day. Meanwhile, Harry fiddled nervously with his tangled bracelets.

"You don't have to, if you're not comfortable with it," Harry said quietly. "I shouldn't have asked. I just— I have a spare ticket, so."

Louis smiled at his nervous habits. He gently touched his hand as reassurance.

"No, I want to. That sounds fun, really. I don't have anything better to do on a Wednesday night," he confessed.

Harry's face lit up. "Really?"

"Really. What time were you thinking?"

"Is three alright?"

"Yeah, that's perfect," Louis hummed. "My last lecture is at 2:45."

Harry nodded. "Three it is, then."

"Do you need a ride to the museum? I reckon you can't drive since you walk home every day."

Harry giggled cutely, his cheeks tinted pink. "Yeah, that'd be lovely."

Louis snatched up a yellow sticky note and slid it across the desk towards Harry.

"Here," he said, handing him an uncapped pen. "Write down your address."

He scribbled his address messily, smudging the blue ink across the paper. He folded it in half and handed it back.  The professor thanked him with a smile. 

"You should probably start working, Styles. Class started five minutes ago."

Harry nodded in agreement and turned away, disappearing into the back of the classroom. He left Louis with butterflies in his stomach— nervous, scared, and guilty butterflies. He knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't even a date. It was just an art museum, something professional, something sophisticated.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to tell Zayn. Although they'd resolved the conflict, the wound was still healing. Even the slightest injury could cause their relationship to rupture.

So he texted Zayn the following message:  _I've just been informed that I have a meeting tomorrow at 3.  Just thought I'd let you know. Have a nice day! x_

What Zayn doesn't know won't hurt him, Louis thought.

౦౦౦

That evening, Louis arrived home to the smell of seasoned meat and fresh vegetables. He hadn't had a properly cooked meal in ages. Without Zayn, he'd been living off boxed noodles and canned soups. His mouth began to water as he walked into the kitchen. Zayn stood there shirtless with an apron: 'kiss the cook.'

Zayn's back turned away from the stove, and apparently he hadn't heard Louis enter. He smirked as he tiptoed closer. He wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his head on his shoulder.

 "Hi, sexy," Louis greeted, giving him a soft kiss.

Zayn jumped in surprise. He continued to stir the rice, however.

"Hello, future husband," Zayn chuckled. "How was work?"

"Good. You?"

"Fine. I got home early today, around one."

Louis hummed contently, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. " 's nice."

Zayn laughed. "What's got you all lovey-dovey?"

Louis let go and stepped over to the side. "Oh, nothing. Just missed your cooking," he said, wrinkling his nose.  "What are you making, anyway?"

"Steak and vegetable kabobs with a side of rice," he rattled off.

"Tasty," Louis teased, licking his lips.

Zayn rolled his eyes. "Can you make yourself useful and set the table?"

"Feisty. I like it," Louis joked, giving Zayn a pat on the bum.

Zayn just giggled and pecked his lips.

౦౦౦

The next morning, Louis felt anxious walking into class. He knew he shouldn't be nervous because, for fuck's sake, it was just an art museum. Nevertheless, something about Harry always put him on edge, made his hairs stand on end. This feeling only intensified as his students began to arrive.

Any second, Harry could walk in. Louis stared at his reflection in his laptop screen, fixing his messy fringe. He discreetly opened his mouth to check for any stray pieces of breakfast clinging to his teeth. He straightened his collar and flattened any wrinkles.

"Who are you trying to impress?"

Louis looked up to see Harry, of course, with a smug look on his face. The professor jumped slightly out of surprise.

"You scared me half to death," Louis huffed, placing his hand over his heart.

"You didn't hear me walk in? I said hello," Harry chuckled.

"You're just quiet," Louis sighed, "but hello."

"Hi," Harry giggled, playing with a piece of hair that curled next to his cheek. "You excited for the art museum tonight?"

"Of course. I'm thrilled to spend time with you."

Harry smiled at that. "I'm glad. I just— I don't really know anyone else who's interested in this kind of stuff," he murmured.

Louis cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, so you'll settle for your old, boring art professor?" he laughed dryly.

Harry shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "No, it's not like that. I quite enjoy your company, Mr. Tomlinson."

"And I quite enjoy yours."

Harry beamed, glancing down at the floor with bashfulness. His cheeks turned rosy, and his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings against his ivory skin.

"So," Louis cleared his throat, "who's this friend of yours with an exhibit at the art museum?"

Harry looked up and bit his reddened lips. "His name's Marcus. He's just an old friend. He was the one who got me interested in artsy stuff."

Louis hummed. "I'd love to meet him."

"I'm sure he'd love to meet you, too," Harry assured, twirling the bracelets around his wrist. Unknotted strings tangled at the end, a messy mixture of pinks and blues and purples. Louis had picked up on all his nervous habits, like twirling his bracelets, fixing his hair, biting his lips.

"Well, you better get to work," Louis insisted, nodding towards his desk. "I'll see you tonight. Be ready around three."

"I will. Thanks again, Mr. Tomlinson."

౦౦౦

Louis's final class, the study of Renaissance art, finished up at 2:45 on the dot. As soon as the clock's hand ticked at the last second, Louis ushered his students out the door, muttering various goodbyes under his breath. He was desperate to leave, desperate to see Harry again. He was in such a blissful mood that he forgot to assign the Renaissance homework, not that his students would mind.

With his classroom now empty, Louis gathered his items at his desk, shoving them messily into his messenger bag. He didn't bother cleaning up the room, despite the messy paint stains and clay smudges left on tables. He'd take care of it later, he told himself.

The professor walked out of the university, waving to passing students and fellow co-workers as he went towards the parking lot. The frigid wind bit against his face, so he ducked his head downwards, teeth chattering slightly. He found his car and unlocked it quickly, then slid inside, comforted by the feeling of soft leather seats.

Louis rummaged through his bag and searched for that small piece of paper with Harry's address. It took a minute or two, but he found it eventually. He squinted his eyes and tried to decode Harry's scraggly handwriting, which was proving to be quite difficult with all the smudges and crinkles. He typed the address into his phone and found directions. It was just a few blocks away from the university.

He decided to send Harry a quick text.

_On my way. Be there soon!_

He typed it five times, erasing it and re-writing it, trying to find the right words. He didn't want to seem bored or bothered, but also not overly excited. He settled for one period and one exclamation mark.

As soon as he sent it, another message popped up on his screen from Zayn. He bit his lip as he read it.

_Good luck with your uni meeting! I love you. x_

Louis felt guilt pile in the pit of his stomach.

౦౦౦

Harry's flat looked modern and sleek, with shiny windows and brown bricks. He had his own balcony on the third floor, and from the ground Louis could see an array of hanging flower baskets and various plants, ranging from herbs to sunflowers to daisies. Louis parked his car out front and waited patiently. For a moment he wondered if he should go up and knock on his door, but then he remembered that Harry had a sister, too. For some reason, he felt intimidated by her. Louis was much more comfortable sending Harry a text to come downstairs.

In less than a minute, Harry walked out with a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step. Louis couldn't help but look him up and down as he approached the car, eyeing his outfit. He wore a floral blouse, unbuttoned nearly half-way, displaying his chest openly despite the cold weather. Its slightly see-through fabric faintly showed his nipples, and Louis felt like he could barely breathe. His legs looked long and lanky in dark skinny jeans, seemingly endless, and they outlined his bum and thick thighs. His hair in itself was a work of art. He'd pulled it up in a tight bun, pinning back all the strands from his face.

As he climbed in the passenger seat, his shirt lifted up a bit, revealing his cute little love handles, his pudgy hips. Louis was on fire. He felt lust burning inside his skull, spreading through his veins, consuming his blood.

"You alright?" Harry finally spoke. "You look a little red."

Louis snapped out of his thoughts. "No, I just— these damn heaters," he insisted and frantically switched them off. That was the last thing he needed: more heat. More warmth to flush his cheeks, to make him sweat, to make him twitch.

"Right," Harry said with a hint of hesitation. "Erm, do you know how to get to the museum?"

Louis shook his head, too flustered to say anything.

"It's not too far from here. It's just downtown a ways," Harry explained. "Keep going straight down this street and I'll tell you where to turn."

Louis's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Okay," he mumbled.

And although the car ride only lasted fifteen minutes, it felt like a lifetime.

౦౦౦

Louis and Harry both felt slightly out of place as they walked inside the art museum. Countless pretentious art critics and creators scattered across the white tiled floors. They moved slowly, like great globs of molasses. Their judging eyes hid behind glasses and furrowed eyebrows.

"Perhaps I should've dressed nicer," Louis chuckled softly.

Harry grinned. "You look fine."

"I didn't know this would be such a... sophisticated event."

Harry just shrugged in response, as if to say, 'oh well.' The two then began to walk through the exhibits, eyes flickering from canvases to sculptures. Louis was interested in the art, truly, but his mind felt quite distracted by Harry. He only made little comments every now and then like "nice" and "pretty."

One canvas hung on the white wall with the caption "Flutterfly." A large butterfly had been painted with acrylic, perched on the pedal of a flower. The realism almost looked like a photograph. Royal blue filled in its wings, edged with a darker navy colour. The shape of the wing started smooth, but finished curvy at the bottom, ending with a teardrop shape at the tip. Louis and Harry both looked upon it with awe.

"Looks real, yeah?" Harry murmured, green eyes sparkling.

"Yeah," Louis echoed. "I wish I was this talented."

Harry laughed quietly. "You are, Mr. Tomlinson."

"Oh, please. I'm more of an abstract lad, to be honest," he rambled, eyes tracing the golden frame around the canvas. A few seconds of silence ticked between them. Harry took a deep breath.

"I want a huge butterfly tattoo," he hummed.

Louis's eyes widened. He knew Harry had small tattoos, like an "A" for Anne and a star under his arm, but none of them were larger than his thumb.

"Really?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, on my stomach," he said, pointing to his tummy. Louis looked down at the skin showing through his thin shirt.

"Like, butterflies in your tummy," Louis mused. " 's clever."

They continued to walk through the museum, side by side, knocking into each other every now and then. They came across a sculpture in the center of the square room, tall and black with small holes punched through it. And then there was a section of small photographs of various birds, ranging from swans to pigeons to falcons. Harry's favourite was a drawing of an old barn, sketched out in charcoal. The amount detail struck him with amazement. The artist illustrated every single blade of grass in the foreground, every crack in the wood, every bumpy shingle.

Finally, Louis and Harry came across a young man standing in front of his artwork. He had dark skin and hazel eyes, brown around the pupil with green blended around it. His coarse black hair was cut short around the sides, but longer on the top. He grinned at Harry with shiny white teeth.

"Harry!" he beamed, giving him a tight hug. Harry smiled against his shoulder and hugged him back.

"It's so nice to see you, Marcus," Harry smiled. "This is my art professor, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis nodded quickly and shook his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tomlinson. I reckon Harry's a troubling student?" Marcus teased.

Louis laughed and shook his head. "No, he's lovely," he insisted.

"You're lucky to have him. I taught him everythin' he knows," Marcus joked, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"Yeah, whatever," Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. He gestured to the watercolour canvas on the wall. "I'm guessing this is yours, yeah?"

The painting was, for lack of a better word, simply beautiful. Light shades of purples and pinks painted a soft sunset with little bird silhouettes flying through the sky. Trees and brushes formed to create a vegetated horizon along a lake's shore, which reflected the scene above.

"Wow," Louis said breathlessly, "that's really pretty."

Marcus smiled proudly. "Well, thank you."

"Oh, don't boost his ego," Harry told Louis, giving him a teasing wink.

"No, let the man speak," Marcus laughed and covered Harry's mouth with his palm.

Harry giggled and swatted his hand away. "I think he's said enough. Don't let my art professor's opinion go to your head."

"I think Mr. Tomlinson's wise."

"Because he likes your painting?"

"Oi, there's nothing wrong with enjoying compliments," Marcus joked.

They continued to banter like old friends, picking at each other's tendencies and habits. Marcus seemed a bit older than Harry, maybe in his early-twenties, but their personalities interlocked perfectly. Marcus was a bit cheeky, always teasing, and Harry added his softness and shyness to the mixture.

"Well," Harry said a few minutes later, letting out a soft sigh. "It was nice to see you again, Marcus, and congrats on getting into this museum. You deserve it, really."

Marcus grinned. "Aw, thank you for coming," he beamed, wrapping Harry in a tight hug. He gave him a soft peck on the cheek, too, and Harry smiled back.

Louis felt slightly awkward standing there, out of place, watching two mates rekindle over lost time. But he knew that soon it would just be Harry and Louis.  They still had a lot of museum left to see.  For some reason, that made him extremely happy. He liked being alone with Harry, having deep conversations about life and love and happiness. So with a handshake goodbye, Louis and Harry left to go see the other art exhibits.

"Marcus seems nice," Louis said quietly as they walked under an archway. It led to another room, filled with various canvases and colorful works of art that overwhelmed his senses.

"He's a pain in my arse sometimes," Harry admitted, "but I suppose all exes are."

Louis paused. He felt his stomach drop sharply, like a roller coaster tipping off a tall hill. All coherent thoughts froze inside his mind.

"Ex?" Louis choked out a few seconds later.

Harry furrowed his brow. "Yeah. Why?"

Louis could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest, his blood rushing to his cheeks. Harry had dated a boy— a living, breathing man. Perhaps he wasn't out of his league, after all.

"You never mentioned that," Louis murmured, shaking his head with confusion. "You said you were just childhood friends."

"We were," Harry confirmed. "It just so happens that we went out when I was sixteen."

Louis swallowed thickly. "And how old was he back then?"

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "I dunno, eighteen?"

Louis nodded slowly. Okay, so he also had a thing for older men, too. Before he could ask any additional questions, however, he heard Harry gasp.

He looked up to see little origami fish hanging from the ceiling by clear threads. There must've been hundreds, all carefully folded with clean cuts and creases. Diversity filled the school of paper fish, and they ranged in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colours. Some were barely the size of a coin, while others were larger than a football.

"Look, Louis," Harry said, pointing to the sky like an adorable child.

Louis grinned towards the ceiling. "That's neat."

"I wish I could do origami," Harry mused, "but I'm too impatient."

Louis chuckled quietly. "Yeah, me too."

Harry watched the paper fish sway through the draft streaming in from the nearby air vent. They wiggled, as if swimming, and fluttered their tiny fins. Louis noticed the twinkle in Harry's eyes, a hint of amusement and wonder.

An assortment of posters and frames filled the wall as Louis and Harry walked along it. Their eyes flickered from each art piece. Harry thought about each technique, the underlying meaning behind every canvas. Louis, however, found himself quite distracted. His mind felt foggy with thoughts of Harry.

"That's pretty," Harry noted and pointed to a black and white photograph.

It pictured a line of birds perched on a telephone line in the city, overlooking zooming cars and tall buildings. The wire dipped downwards to support the birds' weights.

"I wonder how the photographer took that," Louis pondered out loud.

Harry hummed. "Perhaps he stood on a roof."

"Yeah, maybe."

They continued to walk quietly. Louis tucked his hands in his pockets, fingers fidgeting among a collection of lint. He couldn't believe Harry would just drop a bombshell like that. He never mentioned having an interest in men before. The news hadn't dissolved in Louis's brain yet. He still needed time to process it, to gather his thoughts. He felt numb.

"Speaking of photography," Harry said abruptly, breaking the silence. "I think I've figured out what I'm going to do for my next project."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah— sudden inspiration, I suppose."

"Well, I can't wait 'till Friday."

Harry just smiled and nodded, as if to say 'me neither.'

౦౦౦

The car ride back to Harry's flat was quiet, yet filled with internal conversation. The professor switched on the radio to drown out the silence, but he could still hear Harry's languid breaths over Ed Sheeran's calming voice. Louis's clammy hands reached over to switch on his turning signal.

Louis parked outside of Harry's place. They sat there for a few seconds without saying anything. Harry looked out the window into the cold, the late-Autumn breeze whipping fallen leaves through the streets.

"Thanks again, Mr. Tomlinson," Harry said quietly, eyes meeting Louis's.

"It's no problem. Thank you for giving me your spare ticket."

Harry toyed with his sleeve nervously. "Did you— did you have a good time?"

Louis nodded, grin settling on his lips. "Of course, Harry. I love spending time with you," he confessed.  A sense of relief seemed to wash over Harry's face, as if he thought he was a pest.

"Okay, good. I like spending time with you, too," he huffed.  "We should do this more often, yeah? I mean, only if you're, like, comfortable with it."

Louis nodded again. Yeah, he'd definitely be comfortable with that.

"You'll be in a museum like that someday," Harry said abruptly.

Louis raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yeah," he said. "You're too hard on yourself. I think you're a great artist."

Louis laughed nervously. "Thanks, but the chances of getting into a museum like that are one in a million. I'm okay with being a professor."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I've got connections now, thanks to Marcus."

The professor stilled at the sound of his name. "So," he drawled, "you and Marcus aren't, like, still a couple?"

Harry shook his head. "No. We're better off as mates."

"I see."

"And, besides. I like someone else."

Louis felt air leave his lungs. "Oh?"

"Yeah, but it's complicated," he mumbled, his voice fading under his breath. He placed his hand on the door handle, and for a second Louis thought he would leave without saying goodbye. But then Harry turned back to Louis, placing his other hand softly over Louis's arm. His touch felt light and comforting. It made his skin tingle with excitement.

"Thank you for tonight. I haven't had this much fun in months," he admitted.

Louis hummed in response, unable to say anything intelligible. The trepidation of saying something wrong, of letting his feelings slip, kept his lips glued shut.

"I'll see you in the morning," Harry said, giving his arm a comforting squeeze.

With that, Harry left and shut the car door behind him.

౦౦౦

"So, how was your meeting?" Zayn asked later that night.

Zayn and Louis were settled in their bed now, cuddled under layers of blankets and sheets. The lamp on the bedside table produced a dim yellow light, illuminating the book in Louis's small hands. His reading glasses sat at the edge of his nose.

Louis glanced up, his blue eyes dull from lack of sleep. "My what?"

"You said you had a meeting. That's why you were late."

Louis bit his lip, looking back towards his book. "Oh, right. It was fine."

Zayn raised an eyebrow curiously. "Just fine?"

"I'm just tired and tense, 's all," he shrugged.

Zayn frowned. He reached over and closed Louis's book, despite his protests. He tossed it on the floor to have his undivided attention.

"Flip over on your back," Zayn insisted, sitting up properly in the bed. The sheets slipped down to reveal his bare chest, his muscles, his beautiful tattoos. Louis's eyes raked over his torso slowly, eyes drawn to his defined hipbones. 

"I'm not— I'm not really in the mood for sex," Louis stated, his voice sluggish.

His fiance rolled his eyes and swatted his chest. "I don't always want sex, Lou. Let me give you a massage. You seem stressed."

And, really, Louis couldn't reject that. He smiled timidly and turned over on his stomach. Zayn straddled his bum, hands resting on the small of his back. His sienna eyes traced Louis's spine and the dimples that formed above his arse.

His skin was soft and tan, like a lightly-cooked marshmallow. Zayn reached up towards his shoulders. He dipped his thumb into his strained muscles and rubbed small circles.

"Fuck," Louis sighed into his pillow. He turned his face to the side and breathed heavily.

Zayn massaged his palms down Louis's back, slowly moving downwards, then back up again. Louis hummed contently. His hands felt magical.

Still, something felt wrong. Zayn was rewarding him for lying. Louis went against his wishes and saw Harry outside of school. He was untruthful, a liar, a bad fiance. His guilt began to numb the pleasure in his back. He felt nothing but bitter culpability.

"Zayn," Louis huffed.

"Hm?"

"I need to tell you something."

Zayn's hands stilled, resting on his sides. "What is it, babe?"

Louis wanted to tell the truth. He really did. He wanted to come clean and say that the meeting was bullshit, that it never happened.

But no... he couldn't do it.

"I just," he sighed, "wanted to tell you that I love you, is all."

Zayn grinned and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder blade. "I love you, too."

౦౦౦

Thursday was calm in Mr. Tomlinson's art class. He walked around to his students and asked them questions about their photography projects. Most seemed pretty excited to turn them in the following day. Perhaps some students were starting to take this course seriously.

Having other students to tend to, Louis only had five minutes to speak to Harry at the end of the hour. But he didn't mind, really. He could barely speak to the boy anymore without stuttering or saying something stupid.

Louis sat down at Harry's desk. He tapped his table to get his attention.

"Oh," Harry said breathlessly, lifting up his head from his phone. "Hi, Mr. Tomlinson. I was beginning to think you were ignoring me."

Louis laughed awkwardly and shook his head. "I've just been busy with, y'know, other students," he explained.

Harry nodded understandingly. He then began to talk about the weather, and Louis could do nothing but nod along. He couldn't bring himself to talk back. He couldn't deny his feelings for Harry any longer. Was it lust? Was it something more? He didn't know, to be honest. He couldn't confess something if he didn't understand it himself.

Who would've thought that Harry, the student who never spoke, would leave Louis completely speechless?

౦౦౦

The following day, his students turned in their photographs at the end of class. As they left the classroom, they placed them messily in a pile on Louis's front desk. They varied in professionalism. Some were glossy, others printed on flimsy paper, and a few of them were polaroids.

Harry looked absolutely stunning as he walked up to Louis's desk. He was wearing a black and white paisley shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A leather belt held up his skinny jeans, wrapping around his pudgy hips. His messy hair fell loosely to his shoulders and curled at the tips. Louis watched his every move, unable to control his wandering eyes.

Harry placed his picture in the pile, face down. 

"Thanks," Louis mumbled quietly.  

Harry gave Louis a warm smile and a wave goodbye. He left without another word.

As soon every student filed out the door, Louis felt the urge to find Harry's photograph. Anticipation and anxiety boiled in his blood. He shuffled through the collection of photos like a detective, quick and determined. He wondered what Harry's favourite place could be.

Alas, he found the face-down picture. He took a deep breath and flipped it over, and he felt his stomach tighten with shock. 

It was a photo of Louis, of all things.  The professor stared at it for a few seconds with no thoughts— just surprise. He blinked a few times to reassure his sanity, but no, he wasn't hallucinating.  Confusion began to overflow his mind.

Harry must've taken the photo yesterday whilst Louis wasn't paying attention. Mr. Tomlinson had to admit, it was a flattering picture. His body turned to the side slightly, a content smile on his lips. He stood next to a sea of canvases and stools, presumably talking to another student. His paint-splattered shirt outlined his curves beautifully.

Louis then noticed a sticky note attached to the Polaroid photo. Louis gulped as he read Harry's familiar handwriting.

_My favorite place is wherever you are. x H_


	7. paint me a story

The photograph trembled in Louis's hands. He couldn't believe his eyes. He re-read the note one, two, three more times. Harry's favorite place was Louis, of all things. Not a location, but rather a  _person_. He felt like he could barely breathe, air tightening in his chest, his lungs withering.

Shocked silence filled the empty classroom. The professor listened to the steady drip of the leaky faucet in the back of the room, a collection of messy paintbrushes gathered inside. He didn't know whether he should try chasing after Harry or let him go. He cared about that boy a lot, more than he probably should, but the feelings he felt were wrong. He had a fiance. He already had someone to love.

Louis couldn't focus for the rest of the day. He zoned out of his own lectures. When the final bell of his last class rang, he sighed with sweet relief.

Carelessly, Mr. Tomlinson tossed the stack of photographs into his messenger bag, crumpling them up in the process. He threw the leather strap over his shoulder. His shoes clicked along the tiled floors as he left the classroom. He remembered to lock it, his shaking hands struggling to hold the keys steadily.

He always thought his relationship with Zayn was like something out of a fairytale. They were perfect for one another— both passionate about art, family, and music. They shared carefree attitudes and similar senses of humor. When he met Zayn, everything in his life sort of fell into place.

But when he met Harry, everything fell apart in the best way possible.

०००

Louis arrived home that evening feeling guilty. He didn't know why, because he didn't  _do_ anything wrong. It was  _Harry_ who invited him to the art show, and it was  _Harry_ who took that damn photo to mess with Louis's head. He was loyal to Zayn. Maybe not emotionally, but physically.

Zayn sat on the living room couch with a cigarette hanging between his lips, ash building up at the tip.  He threw a glance at Louis as he toed off his shoes.

"Hey, sexy," Zayn greeted. He exhaled slowly, smoke swirling through the air.

Louis smiled timidly as he took a seat next to him. Wordlessly, he plucked the cigarette out of Zayn's fingers and took a quick puff. Yeah, he needed to wind down. He felt on the edge for some reason, as if any second he could tip off a cliff and fall to his destruction.

"I'm bloody exhausted," Louis huffed. The taste of smoke lingered on his tongue.

"Long day at work?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

"Sorry to hear that," Zayn sympathized, carding his hands through Louis's feathery hair. It was the prettiest shade of caramel brown.

Louis just shrugged. " 's fine. How was your day, Mr. Malik?" he asked, handing back the cigarette.

Zayn smirked. "Soon to be Mr. Malik-Tomlinson," he corrected.

"I quite prefer Tomlinson-Malik, actually," Louis teased.

Zayn chuckled. "Yeah, whatever. My day was fine, you dolt."

Louis giggled as Zayn wrapped his arm around his shoulder. He leaned into Zayn's chest and breathed in his familiar scent of cologne. Despite previous events, Louis always felt safe in Zayn's arms. That would never change.

Louis glanced up lovingly, his blue eyes sparkling. "You've got paint on your cheek," he laughed, rubbing his thumb over Zayn's stubble. A streak of red paint stained his olive skin.

Zayn scrunched his nose. "I taught six year olds how to fingerpaint today. Let's just say thing's got a little messy," he sighed.

"Aw, poor baby," Louis pouted. "Here, I've got ya'."

He stuck his thumb in his mouth, coating it with his own saliva, and then smeared it across the paint stain. Zayn gasped and swatted him away.

"That's disgusting!" he hissed.

Louis laughed, crinkles forming next to his eyes. "Oh, so you like my spit on your dick, but not your cheek?" he joked.

Zayn frowned. "You're such a pest."

"But I'm  _your_ pest," Louis insisted, snuggling into his side.

Zayn rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around his waist. His hands snuck under Louis's shirt, settling on the small of his back. He traced random patterns on his tanned skin. Louis sighed contently. He could stay here forever.

"We should get matching tattoos before the wedding," Zayn said abruptly.

Louis quirked an eyebrow. "We already have matching tattoos, babe. Remember?"

Zayn paused for a few seconds. Yes, of course he remembered. They both had 'bus 1' permanently inked on their bodies as a constant reminder of how they first met. Zayn had his on the side of his palm, written in bold font and all capitals. Louis chose his forearm and settled for something softer, written in curly, handwritten letters.

When they met at a teaching conference a few years prior, they took the same bus back to their hotel and, ironically, they unknowingly booked rooms at the same one. It was fate. And thus, 'bus 1' became their thing— their coupley thing.

"I know," Zayn hummed as Louis pressed a kiss to his hand. "But, like, I want something bigger. Like your name."

Louis furrowed his eyebrows. " _My_  name?"

"Yeah, why not? We're gonna spend the rest of our lives together, anyway," Zayn pointed out.

Louis buried his face into Zayn's chest. The cotton of his t-shirt felt soft against his stubble. He murmured something quietly, but Zayn didn't catch it.

"What was that, love?" Zayn asked.

Louis sighed, turning his head slightly. "I said, that's a lot of commitment."

"Well, that's sort of the purpose of marriage, isn't it?" Zayn said slowly, confusion filling his voice.

"I know, but like—"

"You don't have to agree. It was just a suggestion," Zayn interrupted, but Louis could sense the disappointment in his tone. He didn't want to let Zayn down. He already caused enough damage to their relationship.

"It's not that I don't want to. I love your name, and I'd love to get it tattooed, but like. I don't want it to be one of those cliche arrow-through-heart kind of designs, y'know?" Louis reasoned.

Zayn nodded. "But I was thinking we could design each other's.  We're both artists, after all."

"That sounds lovely."

"Really?"

"Really," Louis echoed. To show his sincerity, he straddled Zayn's waist and nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

"Okay, great," Zayn grinned. He pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Louis smiled back because, well, Zayn's happiness was contagious. He acted all tough on the outside, but was sweet and sensitive on the inside. He only showed his vulnerability to people he trusted. Louis was lucky enough to be one of them.

"Y'know what we haven't done in a while?" Zayn began softly, breaking the sudden silence.

"Wha'?"

"Gone on a date."

Louis nodded in agreement. "It's been quite sometime, hasn't it?"

"Mhm," Zayn hummed. "Now get your pretty arse off my lap. I dunno about you, but I'm covered in paint stains, and I want to take you somewhere nice."

"This is so spontaneous," Louis teased, climbing off his lap.

Zayn swatted his bum as they walked towards their bedroom. A layer of dirty clothes coated the floor.  Louis made a mental note to take care of laundry later.

Zayn settled his hands on Louis's waist, their noses nearly touching. He pressed their lips together, closing the gap of tension. Louis parted his mouth as Zayn nibbled on his bottom lip, a soft whimper dissolving in his throat.

Zayn pulled away breathlessly. "Oh, I'm more than spontaneous," he promised. "I'm full of surprises."

०००

"You made me dress up for this disgusting place?" Louis asked, shoulders bobbing up in a silent laugh.

Zayn chuckled. "C'mon, give me some credit! I was trying to be romantic," he reasoned.

The dim lighting of the restaurant hollowed out Louis's cheekbones, eyelashes casting shadows on his skin as he blinked slowly. Nautical-themed knick knacks lined the alabaster walls, from anchors to mermaids to ships. In the corner, Louis noticed the large lobster tank, bubbles filling the water as the filter worked to clean it. Dozens of red crustaceans crawled along the bottom of the tank, tiny legs dusting over a layer of pebbles. The air smelled of fish and salt.

Louis looked around, reminiscence flooding into his brain. "We haven't been here since—"

"Since our first proper date?" Zayn finished, a twinkle in his eye. "I thought it'd be romantic to come back and do it all over again."

Louis wrinkled his nose. "That date was a disaster, Zayn. The waiter mixed up our orders and spilled our drinks. The prawns gave you food poisoning! Why on earth would you want to come back here?"

Zayn just shrugged. "Well, everyone deserves a second chance, right? Besides, the old owner passed away since then, and the whole restaurant is under new management. They changed the menu and everything."

Louis looked hesitant. "I don't know, Zayn. Can't we just go to a bar or somethin'?"

Zayn reached out to hold Louis's hand in his own. His piercing blue eyes focused on the silver band around his ring finger, a constant reminder of commitment.

"Just trust me. If you hate it, I'll make it up to you," Zayn assured.

Louis inhaled a sharp breath, as if he wanted to protest but ran out of energy. The words stuck under his tongue. If eating at this cheesy, low-quality shithole of a restaurant made Zayn happy, then fine. Louis would do anything for him.

"Okay," he exhaled, finally giving in, "fine."

Zayn grinned, showing his approval. "Thanks."

Louis held up his index finger. "But!" he began, raising his pitch. "If you get food poisoning again, don't expect me to nurse you back to health."

Before Zayn could come up with a witty response, a worker approached them, a stack of menus cradled in her arms. She wore the restaurant's tacky costume, equipt with a light blue polo shirt and khakis. A little yellow fish was embroidered on her breast pocket. Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, flyaway hairs sticking to her temples. A name tag was pinned to her shirt. Louis's eyes flickered across its plastic surface, quickly reading the name 'Jessica.'

"Sorry about the wait," she apologized. "Will it just be the two of you tonight?"

They both nodded at the same time, Louis muttering "yes" under his breath.

"Perfect. What's your preference? Booth or table?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Zayn exchanged a quick glance with Louis, although he already knew the answer. "Booth is fine," he replied.

"Follow me," Jessica said, flicking her head to the side.

She walked under the pirate-themed archway that lead to the dining area. She maneuvered through a maze of cluttered tables as Louis and Zayn struggled to keep up with her quick pace. Zayn held onto Louis's hand, tailing a few feet behind him.

Jessica set two laminated menus on either side of the booth. Red cushions lined the seats, a wooden table dividing them. As Louis slid in, he tried not to grimace at the touch of the cheap, tacky fabric. It felt similar to corduroys.

"Your server will be right with you," she chirped before leaving.

Louis picked up the menu, thumbs leaving prints on the glossy surface. He narrowed his eyes and tried to decipher this hideous font, overwhelmed by serifs and blocky letters. He wanted to make so many snarky comments but decided to bite back his tongue.

"The food's different, but they sure haven't invested in redecorating," Zayn commented, glancing around the ugly decor.

Above them, a fishing pole was bolted to the wall. An array of bobbers and hooks scattered freely, some even hanging from the ceiling. Louis listened to the sounds of silverware scraping and glasses clinking and conversations chattering.

"Yeah," Louis said after a few seconds. "I'm sure your dad would love this place. He's a proper fisherman, y'know?"

Zayn laughed under his breath. "Yaser really liked taking me fishing as a kid. I kinda miss it, actually."

"Perhaps we should go together sometime."

Zayn arched his brows. "Like our honeymoon?"

Louis snorted. "Yes, Zayn. I'd love a romantic getaway surrounded by stinky fish."

"Oh, c'mon! It'd be a great bonding experience. I'd even handle the bait so you didn't have to touch the worms," he said, wiggling his index finger like an earthworm.

Louis placed his hand over his heart, eyes flicking upwards with gratification. "What a gentleman!" he teased.

Before Zayn could respond, a waitress stepped up to their table. She wore the same cheesy uniform, polo shirt and khakis, a small notepad in her hand. A pen was tucked in her dark, course hair, balancing on her ear.

"Hello. I'm Sasha and I'll be your waitress today. Can I start you off with something to drink?" she rattled off, her voice monotone with repetitiveness. Louis wondered how many times she had to repeat that phrase on a daily basis.

Louis's eyes flickered over the menu briefly. "Um, I'll just have a Coke."

"Just water's fine with me."

Sasha nodded, her curls bouncing. "Alright. Are you ready to order your food or do you need more time?"

Louis glanced up at Zayn, shrugging slightly. "I'm ready. What about you, babe?"

"Yeah, um, I'll have the smoked Scottish salmon."

"Chips okay with that?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

She plucked her pen out from her hair and scribbled across her notebook. Without looking up, she asked, "And what will you have, sir?"

Louis scratched his stubble, nails itching at his chin. "I'll try the grilled halibut."

Sasha flicked her pen across the small paper, barely writing an abbreviation before shutting the notebook. She snatched up their menus and held them under her arm.

"Excellent choices," she said carelessly. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

Before Louis and Zayn could thank her, she left. Zayn looked at Louis with an amused grin. His tongue played with the ring in his bottom lip.

"Friendly service with a smile, yeah?" he scoffed.

"I told you this place was rubbish," Louis grumbled.

"Hey!" Zayn said defensively. "I was trying to be romantic, alright?"

"I appreciate the gesture, but we had the  _worst_ first date in the history of first dates."

Zayn shrugged. "It all worked out in the end, though."

Louis touched his engagement ring, twirling it around slowly. "I suppose it did," he hummed.

"Speaking of which, I was wondering—"

Zayn was interrupted by their waitress returning, a glass in each hand. She set the cups in front of them without a single word. The water in Zayn's glass tipped over the edge a bit, splashing onto the table. The perfectly-shaped ice cubes bobbed up and down as Zayn steadied the glass. The waitress left again, not bothering to say anything.

"Well, she's friendly," Louis said sarcastically.

Zayn laughed. "Yeah, definitely."

"Anyway. What were you saying, love?" he asked. He gripped the glass, his thumbs smudging off the condensation. The Coke floated up to his lips, and he took a slow sip.

Zayn waved his hand dismissively. "It's nothing."

"Well, it was obviously  _something_ ," Louis chuckled.

"I was just thinking about wedding plans."

Louis leaned forward slightly and tugged on his earlobe. "I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you properly. _You_ were thinking about wedding plans?" he joked.

"Oh, shut up," Zayn muttered and rolled his eyes. "It's not like I don't  _want_  to plan our wedding. I just never had time."

"Right, well, what were you thinking about?"

"A date."

Confusion washed over Louis's face. "What do you mean? We're on a date right now."

Zayn huffed. "Not that kind of date. I mean, we should schedule a day for the wedding."

Louis looked surprised, to say the very least. Although Zayn was the one who proposed, he never wanted to think about wedding details. He procrastinated and said they'd figure everything out later. This sudden spark of interest caught Louis off guard.

"Oh, wow. Okay. Erm, what day did you have in mind?"

Zayn pulled out his black iPhone and unlocked it. For a split second, Louis caught a glimpse of his lock screen: rainbow-colored paint splatters. He opened the calendar app and skipped forward a few months, his finger flicking down the screen.

"The twenty-seventh of June," he said quietly. "It's a Saturday."

Louis smiled. "That sounds perfect, Zayn. Do you still want to book that vineyard by the sea? I think it'd be beautiful."

Zayn locked his phone and slid it back into his pocket. "Yeah, sure.

Louis lit up with excitement. "I think we should do a blue and white color scheme, like the sky. And I don't want a normal cake. I want something extravagant— something artsy, y'know?" he rambled, voice bubbly.

"Somethin' artsy," Zayn repeated. "Sounds like us."

"And my mum wanted to know if Doris could be our flower girl," Louis continued. "I was gonna ask you the other day, but I, uh, couldn't get a hold of you."

Zayn's gaze dropped a little, falling to the top of his glass. He coughed awkwardly.

"Yeah, that's fine with me."

Louis gave a small smile. "I'm sorry. I got carried away. I can be a bit obsessive sometimes."

Zayn reached across the table and placed his hand over Louis's. "You're not obsessive, and I like that you care so much. I'm just bad at planning things, is all," he assured.

"Do you think we'll have enough money to pull this off? This huge wedding extravaganza?" Louis asked hesitantly.

Zayn gave his palm a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be fine. I promise. It's going to be the wedding of your dreams, my prince charming."

Louis blushed a little, suppressing a giggle. "Does that make you the damsel in distress?"

"I'm whatever you want me to be."

Louis smirked and glanced over, catching their waitress in the corner of his eye. She approached their table quickly, gum smacking between her lips. She carried two large plates filled with delicious, steamy seafood. Louis pushed his Coke aside to clear a space on the table.

"Here's your halibut," she greeted and set the plate in front of Louis. The white fish was grilled to a perfection, covered with thin strips of cooked brown. It was garnished with a bit of green leafy stuff. Louis didn't know what it was, so he nudged it aside with his fork.

"And your salmon," she murmured, handing Zayn his plate. The orange-coloured meat looked absolutely delicious, two large chunks sprawled across the platter.

"Enjoy," she said before walking away to tend to another table.

Louis instantly dug in and cut off a piece with his fork and knife. He took a bite, his teeth sliding over the metal fork. He chewed for a second, eyebrows scrunched together.

"How is it?" Zayn asked worriedly.

" 's fine," Louis muttered. "Tastes like chicken."

Zayn grinned and nibbled on one of his golden-brown chips. He picked up his knife and began to cut up his salmon. Before he could take a bite, however, he felt Louis nudge his ankle under the table.

He looked up. "Wha'?" he asked.

Louis leaned in closer. "Don't look now, but I'm pretty sure that's Jack sitting right over there," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Zayn's face turned pale. "Jack Lee?" he asked nervously.

Louis gritted his teeth. "Yes. I thought you said he was still locked up in jail?" he hissed.

Zayn shook his head with disbelief. "But I— I thought he  _was_."

"Well, you thought wrong because I'm looking at him right now."

Zayn spun around in his seat. Sure enough, Jack was sat at a table with a group of tattooed rebels. Louis didn't like Jack— not one bit.

Jack was the leader of a gang that used to make Zayn's life a living hell. Thanks to Jack, Zayn nearly lost his teaching job a few years prior. Zayn used to be heavily involved with the gang, but he was able to break away after a while with a little help from Louis. He said he needed to settle down with his husband, and they accepted it. Other members were not so lucky.

Louis and Zayn nearly broke up because of Zayn's previous gang activity. It put too much stress on their relationship. He didn't like always worrying about his safety. He didn't like coming home to find him high on the sofa. Needless to say, it was a rough patch in their relationship, and seeing Jack just brought all those negative feelings back.

"Maybe we should leave," Zayn said urgently, setting down his silverware. "It's not safe."

Louis shook his head. "What? No. I thought you said you and the gang ended on good terms?"

Zayn waved his hand back and forth slightly. "More or less."

"What do you mean more or less?! You lied to me?" Louis snapped.

Zayn held out his hands as an attempt to calm him down. "Well, I didn't want you to worry!"

Louis scoffed. "Well that worked out perfectly, didn't it?"

Zayn frowned. "I'm sorry, alright? You told me you'd break up with me if I didn't stop the gang activity."

"Oh, so now this is  _my_  fault?"

"I never said that!" Zayn hissed, his voice lowering to a firm whisper.

"I can't believe this," Louis breathed. "What? Do they want to  _kill_  you?"

Zayn just shrugged. "Maybe."

"I was joking!"

"But you could be right! Lou, gangs don't like it when members try to leave. It's the truth. More times than not, it ends in violence," Zayn admitted.

Louis ran a tired hand down his face. "Why haven't they hurt you by now, then?" he demanded.

"I don't know. Perhaps they haven't been able to find me."

Louis shook his head with disbelief. "You lied to me, Zayn. You put both our lives in danger. Why didn't you tell me earlier? We could've gotten help from the police!"

"Police don't  _help_  ex-gang members, Lou. They arrest them," he snapped.

"Whatever. I'd rather not be murdered tonight. We're leaving," Louis sighed, pulling out his wallet. He snapped a few notes down on the table, hoping it would be sufficient enough to cover the food.

"Lou, c'mon, we haven't even eaten yet. Stop being so dramatic," Zayn said, cutting off a bit of salmon with his fork. As he went to take a bite, Louis flicked off the meat with his finger.

"No. I'm leaving now, with or without you," he warned.

As they fled the tacky seafood restaurant, Zayn threw a glance over his shoulder. For a split second, his eyes met Jack's. His heart thudded heavily in his chest.

Yeah. This date was definitely worse than their first.

°°°

Louis awoke the next morning on a lumpy couch, his head lolled on the armrest. Dried drool stuck to his cheeks and goosebumps covered his cold skin. His feet were exposed to the chilly air, the nearby fan blowing a breeze towards his toes. The small but heavy quilt barely reached his ankles. The scratchy fabric felt rough against his soft skin, giving off a sensation of tingling.

As he pulled the blanket towards his face, he inhaled the lingering scent of smoke. He groaned with annoyance and turned slightly on the sofa, rotating on his side. His mind drifted to the night before: cuddling, eating, and then fighting. All because of damn Jack Lee.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Zayn greeted, walking under the archway that connected to the kitchen. He wore nothing but boxers that rode low on his waist, exposing his hip tattoos and a light dusting of hair.

Louis grumbled with annoyance and held up his middle finger. He heard Zayn snort on the other side of the living room.

"You're still pissed off, yeah?"

Louis didn't reply— just squished his face into the couch's armrest.

"Lou, all that shit is in the past now," Zayn sighed. "I'm a different man now. You of all people should know that. You're the one who convinced me to let go of the gang to become a full time teacher."

Louis sat up quickly, his eyes snapping open. "Shut the fuck up. You never told me you ended on bad terms. Do you understand how dangerous that is? Jack went to prison for assault and battery, Zayn! And god knows what else he's done!"

"That's not my fault," Zayn huffed, not bothering to make a rebuttal.

He snatched up a carton of drags from the coffee table and grabbed a lighter. He rubbed his thumb over the blue plastic before flicking it on, edging the flame over the tip of the cigarette. He stuck it between his lips as Louis glared at him, his piercing blue eyes cutting into his skill.

"You  _lied_  to me," Louis whimpered, tucking his knees against his chest. The quilt draped around him like a coat.

Zayn tilted his head a bit. "Babe, please don't be upset," he begged, the cigarette bobbing between his chapped lips. "I didn't want you to worry. I– I wanted you to be  _proud_  of me for getting out of the gang, is all."

"But you didn't get out. They want to hurt you, Zayn, and you're running away from it. Or should I say Z-dog? Zig-Zag? Z-diddy? I don't know your stupid gang name," Louis spat.

Zayn's fist tightened around the cigarette carton, crumpling the flimsy paper material. "Shut the fuck up, Louis! I'm so sick and tired of you blaming everything on me. I'm not the bad guy here— it's Jack! So stop treating me like a fucking criminal in my own home, alright?" he shouted. As he spoke, veins bulged out of his neck and his skin reddened with anger.

"You _are_  a criminal, Z-dog, so don't tell me to shut up. We all know you've had quite a shady past," he said, lips curling around a quiet laugh.

Zayn crossed his arms over his chest. "That's not funny."

Louis knew this wasn't a joking matter, but humor was his coping mechanism. "Why hasn't the gang tried to kill you yet, huh? If you ended on bad terms?"

Zayn blinked in silence for a few seconds. "I don't– I don't know!" he cried.

"Bullshit!"

"I don't know!"

"Stop lying to me!" Louis nearly screamed, veins poking out of his neck.

"I've been doing them favors, alright?!" Zayn shouted, balling up his fists. "Is that what you wanted to hear?!"

Louis stared at him, his anger turning into bitter betrayal. His heart sunk to his stomach, a burning sensation spreading through his chest. He stood up from the couch and yanked off the quilt in one quick motion. He pointed his index finger into Zayn's chest.

"What kind of favors?" he demanded. "Tell me now."

Zayn bit his lip, taking a few steps backwards. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't say you're sorry. Tell me the truth for once in your goddamn life," Louis growled. He felt so stupid for falling for Zayn's lies over and over again. He should've known better.

"Just minor drug deals, okay?" Zayn assured, his chestnut eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I'm not in the gang anymore, I promise, but I— I have to stay on their good side."

Louis's eyes stung suddenly. He felt a tingly sensation in his throat as a single tear dripped down his cheek. "How do you expect to get married when I can't even trust you?" he whimpered.

Zayn shook his head and tried to caress Louis's face, but he flinched away. "Please don't be like this," he begged. "I didn't have any other option."

Louis sniffled and glanced downward, unable to look at Zayn any longer. "I thought you changed. I thought you were a sweet man with a passion for art and teaching," he began, voice breaking between words. "I thought you gave up your old life to be happy with  _me_ , but you— you chose the gang over us."

Zayn huffed with annoyance. "You're acting like I had a choice."

"But you still lied to me, Zayn. How do you expect to get married if I can't even trust you? All this time, you've been helping Jack behind my back," he spat.

"I'm sorry, okay? I was trying to protect you."

"What else have you been keeping secret from me?" Louis asked bitterly. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore."

"You're overreacting, Louis," Zayn sighed.

"Don't tell me I'm overreacting because I'm not. I was already suspicious because of Liam, and now this!"

Zayn frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you did spend an awful amount of time at Liam's. Wouldn't surprise me if you shagged him a couple times," Louis seethed. Anger filled each word, making his pronunciations sharp and resentful.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Louis. He's just a mate and he's married to a woman, for crying out loud. You've been spending a lot of time with Harry, so that makes you a bloody hypocrite," he nearly screamed, taking a threatening step towards the couch.

"Are we really going back to Harry again? He's my student for fuck's sake," he shouted.

"And Liam's just a friend!"

"Yeah, a friend whom you had sex with!"

Zayn raised his arm mid-air, as if he was close to snapping. Louis stepped forward so their chests nearly touched. Every shred of resistance in Zayn's body crumbled.

"What? Wanna slap me? Go ahead," Louis taunted. "Give me another reason to not trust you."

Zayn dropped his hand to his side. He shook his head and said, "Go fuck yourself, Lou."

He turned to walk away down the hall, but Louis grasped his forearm tightly, yanking him back into the living room. He held a firm grip over his boombox tattoo. Reddened fingerprints stained his olive skin as Louis let go.

"Don't you dare walk away from me," Louis warned.

"Or what?"

Louis stayed quiet, his voice silenced by his own fear.

"That's what I thought. This conversation is over. Let me know when you're ready to grow up," he growled. Before he disappeared into their bedroom, however, he added, "You're nearly twenty-seven, Lou. Act like it." The door slammed shut behind him. Louis listened closely as the lock clicked shut.

He waited for a few seconds in solitude. He made small paces across their living room, his tiny feet padding over the soft carpet. Hostility bubbled in his veins, spreading through his bloodstream until he could feel nothing but pure anger. A dense feeling of rage settled in his stomach.

Acting carelessly, Louis picked up the nearest object: a picture frame. He hurled it towards the nearest wall. The glass shattered and spit broken shards across the floor. The photograph fell with a loud thud. He narrowed his eyes at the photo. It depicted Zayn and him at a carnival downtown, and Louis's arm was wrapped around Zayn's waist whilst he rested his head on Louis's shoulder. Cheesy grins sat on both their faces. Bright lights from the ferris wheel in the background illuminated the scene. They looked genuinely happy.

Louis carefully picked up the shattered picture frame. Bits of glass collected in his shaking palms. He picked through the wreckage and pulled out the glossy photograph. With tears blurring his eyesight, Louis tore down its center, splitting up their bonded bodies.

°°°

Usually Louis dreaded Mondays, but after what happened with Zayn, he craved it. He needed to get out of the house and spend some time doing something he loved— art. He needed to escape the tense air that hung between them. Neither of them wanted to be the one to surrender and leave the house, so they both stayed at home, ignoring each other at all costs.

They spend the remainder of the weekend being passive aggressive. Louis was as sour as raw berries, as bitter as dark chocolate. They both felt like the protagonists of their relationship, and neither Zayn nor Louis wanted to admit to being wrong.

Louis decided to leave the house on Sunday. Not permanently, no, but he needed to escape this toxic environment for at least a few hours. He didn't bother telling Zayn he was leaving. He didn't even have the decency to leave a note, either. He left his fiance to wonder about his absence— not that he actually cared.

Louis took the car and fled the neighborhood, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the steering wheel. He pressed the gas and sped over the limit, not caring at all, because if Zayn could commit crimes, so could he.

His back felt sore after sleeping on the lumpy couch for two nights. Those shabby cushions didn't compare to their deluxe micro foam mattress. Subconsciously, Louis began driving towards the nearest bar. He desperately needed a drink to calm his nerves.

He drank away all his sadness until nothing but numbness remained.

°°°

Louis stood in front of his mirror, gliding the razor across his chin. He shaved off a layer of white, fluffy cream. He rinsed the blade under the steady stream of water. Short whiskers swirled inside the sink and vanished down the drain. He leaned over the counter and splashed his face with cold water, hands scrubbing over his shaven skin.

When he looked up, he barely recognized his reflection. His skin looked paler, his eyes darker, his frown deeper. He felt utterly exhausted, both emotionally and physically.

Suddenly, the door opened with a loud creak. Zayn stepped inside with a towel thrown over his shoulder. He cradled a pile of clean clothes in his arms.

"I need to shower," he grumbled, his voice still sore with lack of sleep.

Louis glanced back at his razor. "Not my problem," he murmured.

Zayn quirked an eyebrow. "Some privacy would be nice, yeah?"

Louis shrugged. He picked up his green toothbrush and rinsed it under the faucet. " 's not like I haven't seen you naked," he mumbled, eyes flickering up towards the mirror. He snatched up his dwindling tube of toothpaste and struggled to squirt some on the wet bristles. He pinched his fingers at the mouth of the tube until an air bubble popped, giving out a thin stream of blue, minty paste.

Zayn sighed heavily. "Okay, whatever."

With that, Zayn pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the tiled floor. He yanked back the shower curtain and twisted the knob. The water gurgled in the pipes before spitting out through the chrome shower head. Whilst the shower warmed up, Louis brushed his teeth vigorously, white foam oozing past his pretty, pink lips.

Through the mirror, Louis stole a quick glance at Zayn's chest. He admired his slightly-defined abs and chiseled hipbones. As Zayn tugged down his boxers, Louis bit his lip and stared at the wolf tattoo on his calf. It was one of his favorites. A trail of black hair began at his belly button and led down to his cock. Louis blushed and turned back towards the sink and spat.

"Y'know, we could have sex right now if you'd just apologize," Zayn spoke up.

Louis snorted. "What are you talking about?"

"I'd take you right here against the wall, or perhaps in the shower, yeah? " he taunted, stepping towards Louis. He wrapped an arm around Louis's waist, pressing his dick into the small of his back. Louis flinched and turned around quickly. He slammed his palms into Zayn's uncovered chest, pushed him backwards.

"Fuck off. I'm not apologizing for shit. If anything, you're the one who should say sorry," he hissed.

Zayn scoffed. "Yeah, right. Just trying to be nice. You seem tense, 's all," he said with a wink.

Louis held up his middle finger as Zayn stepped into the shower. The curtain closed behind him. Louis listened to the steady stream of spraying water as the air began to humidify, condensation sticking to the mirror.

He left the bathroom and ran his fingers through his slightly damp hair, still a bit wet from his early-morning bath. He ghosted over his smooth jawline. He usually liked his stubble, but sometimes it felt nice to rid his face of its scratchiness.

Louis snatched up his car keys off the kitchen counter and twirled the metal ring around his finger. A collection of souvenir key chains surrounded it, ranging from a surfboard with 'Australia' written across it, to a mini Eiffel tower from Paris. They jingled in his hands as he walked out the front door.

He climbed in his car and set his briefcase in the passenger seat. He turned on the engine, sighing softly at its gentle purr. He couldn't wait to see Harry again, but at the same time, he'd never felt so nervous.

°°°

Louis's classroom felt cold. The fans in the ceiling sputtered out chilly air, blowing a draft directly towards his front desk. Bits of dried-up clay and smudges of paint stuck to the tables. In the back of the classroom, messy paintbrushes collected in a dirty, leaky sink. As he settled in the empty room, he listened to the steady drip of the rusted faucet.

A thin layer of white dust covered the chalkboard. Pieces of broken chalk gathered in the metal tray. They varied in light, pastel colors— blue, green, yellow, pink, and classic white.

He booted up his laptop and waited for his students to arrive. He couldn't believe the sixth and final project would start today. The semester flew by. He wondered what would happen between him and Harry after the course ended. Would they continue to talk?

There was a quiet knock at the door. Louis glanced up from his screen, his index finger ghosting over his trackpad.

Harry stood in the doorway. He wore a white Rolling Stones t-shirt that fit loosely on his torso, waves forming in the soft fabric. Black skinny jeans clung to his thick thighs. For shoes, he wore a pair of brown, heeled boots with pointed toes. A rolled-up bandanna decorated his chocolate, brown hair, pushing back stray pieces to reveal bright, emerald eyes. His long lashes fluttered against his blushed cheeks.

"Oh, hi," Louis breathed, all coherent thoughts freezing in his mind. "You're here early."

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, I— I hope I'm not intruding."

"No, no, of course not. Please come in. I could use the company," Louis insisted and waved his hand inward.

Harry smiled timidly and walked in. He leaned against the table in front of Louis's desk, crossing his ankles.

"So, the sixth project starts today," Harry mused. "Time flies."

"Yeah, it sure does," he laughed. He glanced down at his keyboard. "I'm still sorting out the details for the assignment. The instructions are quite unclear."

"I like it, actually," Harry hummed. "The simplicity of it. Just, paint a story."

Louis grinned. "I'm glad you think so, Harry, but unfortunately unstructured assignments often lead to laziness."

"True."

"But not you, of course. You always go above and beyond my expectations," Louis said softly. "Especially with that photography assignment."

Harry bit his lip and looked down towards his boots. "Um, yeah, thanks."

Louis closed his laptop. It clicked shut, and he leaned back in his chair.  It creaked softly.

"I quite like that photo of me. You got my good side," he teased.

Harry twirled a purple bracelet around his wrist. "Every side is your good side," he complimented.

Louis felt bubbles in his tummy. This sort of seemed like flirting.

"You flatter me, Styles."

A corner of Harry's strawberry lips quirked up in a smirk. "You deserve to be flattered, Mr. Tomlinson."  His voice was as slow as molasses.

Yup. Definitely flirting.

"Y'know, I can't help but think about that note you wrote," he inquired, struggling to keep his voice calm. "What exactly did that mean?"

Harry paused for a few seconds. "Well,  _you're_ the teacher."

Confusion washed over the professor's face. "Huh?"

"You of all people should know that art is all about interpretation," Harry explained, a hint of teasing in his tone.

Before Louis could reply, a group of other students walked in, chit-chatting and finding their seats. Harry's eyes flickered to the ticking clock on the wall, then back to Louis.

"Guess that's my cue," he said. He gestured towards the back table. His green backpack hung off his shoulder as he walked away. His boots clicked along the tiled floors.

Louis grumbled under his breath with annoyance. Curse Harry and his cryptic ways. This boy would be the death of him.

A few minutes later, a crowd of tired uni students filled Louis's classroom. He waited for them to quiet down before speaking. He stood in front of the room, eyes scanning over the class. Harry caught his gaze and held it for a few seconds. His light green eyes resembled freshly-cut grass, soft and gentle and beautiful. Louis's irises, on the other hand, were a raging hurricane with flecks of dark blue waves carved into an ocean of sapphire.

The professor forced himself to look away. He returned his attention to teaching.

"So," he began, clasping his hands together, "welcome back. I hope you all had a lovely weekend."

A few chuckles and groans erupted from the group of lethargic students. Louis's lips curved up in a smile.

"I've only graded a few photographs so far," Louis admitted, looking back at Harry for a short moment. "But hopefully I'll be done with all the assignments within the next few days. I've seen lots of creativity with these pictures— some more than others."

A girl in the front raised her hand. She was a young student with dark, curly hair and swarthy skin. A coat of neon pink nail polish coated her long nails. She wore square-shaped glasses that overwhelmed her facial features, resting on the tip of her freckled nose.

"Yes, Kate?"

"When will we start the sixth project? Because, like, we only have two weeks left of the semester," she asked.

Louis nodded. "Right. Thank you for reminding me. If you all remember the syllabus, this project revolves around painting. To be specific, your assignment is to paint something that tells a story. You can use acrylic or water color," he rambled.

He turned towards the board and pinched a piece of broken chalk between his index and thumb. He scribbled "12" across the dusty green surface.

"You have twelve days to complete this project," he announced. "It's due next Friday. Tomorrow we'll review techniques with the works of Van Gogh and Monet, just to name a few. Until then, I want to give you some free time to explore your own skills."

A read-headed boy sitting near the window chuckled. "Or lack there of."

Louis laughed. "Don't doubt yourself, John."

"Can you clarify something for me?" another girl, Yvette, asked. Her hair was blonde and curly, little ringlets framing her round face.

Louis raised his brow. "Hm?"

"What do you mean by painting a story? I don't get it."

Louis rotated the chalk between his palms, lip bitten between his teeth. "That's an interesting question. Basically, when I look at the painting, I should be able to  _feel_ something— to learn something new about your life."

"That seems impossible," Yvette murmured.

"I can assure you it's not. Just give your best effort," he insisted. "Finish off the semester with a bang, yeah? Now, if there aren't any more questions, you can all begin. There are canvases in the back cabinet and paper in the left drawer. You can find paint and brushes in the cupboard above the sink. Let me know if I can help."

Thus, the class began their final projects. Before he knew it, Louis's classroom was covered in paint smudges and broken brush bristles. He proceeded to the back of the room towards Harry's desk, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Harry sat there on the cold, metal stool with his pen pressed to a blank sheet of paper.

"How's it going?" Louis asked, leaning against the nearest table.

Harry dropped his pen and frowned. "I'm out of ideas," he confessed.

"Sorry to hear that."

Louis watched as Harry closed his sketchbook. As he shut it, the professor caught a glimpse of the many sketches inside. For a split second, he saw an array of pencil marks and beautiful doodles.

"So how was your weekend?" Louis said abruptly, wanting to change the subject.

Harry shrugged. "Pretty boring, to be honest. Yours?"

Louis scrunched his face. "Awful."

" 'm sorry to hear that," Harry murmured, mocking his words from earlier. He stared at his hands and picked his thumbnail to break eye contact. "It's not— it's not because of me, right? Because of the picture and— and the note?"

Louis shook his head quickly. "No, no, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"I was afraid I creeped you out," Harry admitted, shoulders bobbing up in a silent laugh. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, and I didn't want to overstep my boundaries, but— but I meant what I said. This classroom really  _is_ my favorite place."

Louis's eyes lit up with pride. "Really?"

"Really," Harry confirmed with a short nod. "I don't have anyone else to talk to, really, but you're the first person in a long time to go out of their way to have a conversation with me. Usually people just give up, but not you. And I quite like art, so that's a plus."

Louis's heart fluttered in his chest. Every time Harry spoke, his eyes were drawn to his rosy lips, watching how they curled and moved around his slow words. He smiled widely.

"Well, thank you for being such an amazing student," Louis flushed. He brushed his fringe over his face in an attempt to hide his reddened cheeks. His caramel-colored hair hooded his shimmering eyes.

Harry gave him a bittersweet grin. "Only for two more weeks. Then I'm relaxing for winter break. Being such an 'amazing student' is quite exhausting," he teased, adding finger quotations around Louis's words.

Louis let that sink in for a moment: two weeks. Only two more weeks of seeing Harry on a regular basis. Usually he'd feel excitement for a fresh start, a new set of faces in the class, but he'd found a sense of routine and familiarity with Harry. He genuinely enjoyed coming to work, simply because he enjoyed seeing Harry. Louis didn't want that to end quite yet— maybe not ever.

"Are you graduating soon?" Louis wondered, eyebrows arched.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I'll be done with uni in about a year. I'm finishing early since I'm in the honor's program."

Louis felt butterflies in his tummy. Harry was artistic, intelligent, charming, gorgeous, and Louis could go on and on about his amazing qualities. He was a total catch.

"That's incredible, Harry. What's your major?"

Harry tapped his pencil against the desk. "Engineering. I'm minoring in arts, though."

"Engineering?" Louis snorted. "I never would've guessed."

He meant it, too. He never thought Harry would find machines and complex engines interesting. He was an artsy hipster who wore hair buns and floral-print tops, not an engineer. He imagined Harry wearing a tool belt around his pudgy hips and suppressed a giggle.

"Yeah. It wasn't really my decision, though. Gemma said it's more reliable than art, which I guess is true," he said, shrugging a bit.

Louis frowned. "I hate that misconception. You should be able to pursue whatever career you want. You've got more talent in your pinky finger than the entire class put together," he said, lowering his voice at the end.

Harry smiled. "Thank you, but engineering isn't so bad," he insisted. "Some of my other classes involve sketching blueprints and stuff, which is kinda cool."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've grown to like it— or at least tolerate it," Harry chuckled.

Louis nodded understandingly, although he wished Harry would follow the path of art instead. Louis had never seen a person with so much talent, artistic vision, and natural skills, let alone in a nineteen-year-old. It left him completely breathless.

"But what do you  _want_ to do?" Louis pressed.

Harry glanced away towards his notebook, breaking their eye contact. The metal spiral that connected the pages twisted at the ends, bending and falling apart. Random doodles of stars and hearts decorated the front cover.

"I dunno," he confessed. "I've kinda always wanted to be an illustrator."

"What kind of illustrator? Like, for magazines and textbooks and stuff?"

"No, more like children's books," he said. The corners of his lips quirked up in a gentle smile, his white teeth peeking through. "I've always liked kids, a lot, and so I think it'd be fun."

Louis couldn't help but smile back. He imagined Harry spending time with children, sketching cartoons all day with bright colors. He felt all mushy inside at the thought.

"That sounds lovely," he said eventually, breathing out his words.

"Thanks, but it's just not practical," Harry insisted, his voice as soft as a feather. "What about you, Mr. Tomlinson? Do you like kids?"

Louis grinned. "Yeah. I can't wait to have children of my own," he admitted.

"And your fiance?"

Louis's smile faded as he glanced down at his engagement ring. The metal felt cold on his skin. He thought about Zayn and their multiple arguments. To be honest, marriage seemed terrifying now, rather than something to look forward to. It made his anxiety skyrocket.

"Zayn doesn't like babies," he murmured. "He's not really the family type. He wants to adopt older kids— like, at least five years of age. Says he doesn't want to deal with the newborn phase. He works with children with disabilities, but he's— he's not really into the whole diaper-changing thing and all the work that comes with a little baby."

"Is that what you want?"

"No," Louis said instantly. "No, I want a baby. A tiny infant, y'know? One I can bottle-feed and rock to sleep."

Harry brushed his hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. "Well, hopefully you two can work something out. You've been together for a long time, yeah?"

"Yeah," Louis echoed, but he sounded hesitant. "Although, sometimes I feel like I don't know him at all."

Harry didn't know how to respond. He frowned apologetically and reached out to touch Louis's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The professor's tiny knuckles felt small under his palm.

"I'm sorry," Louis mumbled, forcing himself to pull away. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know why I'm bothering you with my personal problems."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I don't mind."

"No, but it's— it's unprofessional," he sighed, dropping his head. His eyes traced the dark lines between the tiles on the floor.

Harry scoffed quietly. "Mr. Tomlinson, we're the epitome of unprofessionalism."

His voice made Louis's tummy tingle. Deep down, he wished they would break the walls of unprofessionalism and venture into something deeper, something scandalous, something unknown.

"I suppose that's true," Louis said, his face heating up. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

That was a flat out lie. He wanted things between them to be different, in the best way possible. He wanted to touch Harry and kiss him and— wow. He was losing his mind.

"Me neither," Harry hummed after a few seconds.

His words sounded ingenuine, however, igniting a spark of hope in Louis's sad soul. Perhaps deep down, the feeling was mutual.

°°°  

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Louis sighed, stepping into his house later that evening.

As he set his briefcase on the floor, a swirl of smoke blurred his vision, the scent of marijuana lingering in the air. The living room was an absolute mess. Junk food wrappers and empty bags of crisps covered the coffee table. Zayn wore only his boxers, his bare feet propped up on the opposite armrest. A blunt hung between his lips, and as he inhaled, the brown paper crumbled to ash at the tip, glowing red behind bits of grey dust. Louis kicked off his shoes.

"What?" Zayn asked.

"You're such a lazy arse," Louis complained, nudging his feet off the couch. "I don't care if you smoke, but don't you dare treat my house like it's some sort of pigsty."

Zayn laughed bitterly. " _Your_ house? Both of our names are on the lease papers, darling."  He slurred his words.

"Don't call me that," Louis snapped. He snatched the cigar out of Zayn's hand and smothered it in the ash tray.

His fiance rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'll clean the house later, alright?"

"No, it's not alright."

"Chill out, yeah? You're home for less than a minute, and we're already bickering."

"And whose fault is that?" Louis asked rhetorically, his eyebrow raised.

When Zayn didn't respond, Louis scoffed and picked up the stray wrappers. He crumpled them in his hand and tossed them in the nearby bin, his foot stomping on the pedal to lift its metal lid. He then proceeded to grab Zayn's t-shirt off the floor, the black one with a grey skull on the front, and threw it at him angrily. It landed in his lap.

"And put on some clothes," Louis ordered.

Zayn stared at the shirt for a moment. Pinkish red outlined his chestnut eyes.

"Why should I? It's just the two of us. 's not like I have to be decent, unless it makes you flustered," he teased, craning his neck a bit. A thick vein protruded from his olive skin.

"Don't flatter yourself. Just don't want your dirty clothes on the floor," Louis assured.

"Oh, really?"

"Really," he said with annoyance. "And besides, why the hell are you home so early? Did you even go to work today?"

"Yeah," Zayn murmured. "By the way, we're out of pasta. We did macaroni art today, so I ransacked our cupboards."

Louis frowned. "And? Do you honestly expect me to go shopping and buy more fucking pasta? It's your job, Zayn, not mine."

"Right, I forgot," Zayn said sarcastically. "I'm a  _real_ teacher. You, however, like to obsess over your students."

Louis glared at him. "Fuck off. You don't know anything about Harry. You've never even met him!"

"I don't need to know him!" Zayn spat. "I know enough to realize that he's just using you to get a good grade."

Louis felt a burning sensation of anger in his gut. He hated this. He hated fighting with Zayn on a daily basis. He hated the fact that they couldn't have a proper, civil conversation without shouting. He hated that he loved Zayn so much, because if he didn't, he would've left him by now.

Without fighting back, Louis shook his head in silence. "I don't want to fight right now. I've had a long day. Talk to me when you've calmed down," he mumbled.

With that, Louis disappeared into their bedroom and slammed the door before Zayn could follow. He stared at the large, unmade bed in the center of the square-shaped room. The blue sheets were messy and tossed aside, the pillows askew in front of the wooden headboard. He glanced at the mirror above Zayn's dresser. He barely recognized his own reflection. Dark circles of grief and exhaustion settled underneath his dull blue eyes.

Two small tables sat on either side of their bed. In the center of the room lay a white, fluffy rug, its yarn-like strings squished between Louis's small toes. The windows on the back wall filled the room with yellowish light, the curtains pushed aside. It gave a nice view of their small, fenced-in backyard. A barren willow tree cast shadows across the dying grass. Its branches resembled a wooden spiderweb, tangled and connected in a faint pattern. A patio stretched out from the back door, but they didn't use it very often, thanks to the cold weather.

Louis sighed and plopped down on the mattress. His face pressed against Zayn's pillow. It smelled of his cologne and hair gel.

He turned his head to the side until his temple hit the pillow. He glanced at Zayn's bedside table. A lighter, some candles, and his jewelry bowl collected on top. The stained-glass bowl contained a variety of earrings, nose rings, and necklaces. It was made of triangular pieces of glass that ranged in colors, composed of blue and green and white. The candles dripped with solid wax. Louis preferred the lavender one. Only a sliver of purple wax remained at the bottom of the candle jar, its black wick dwindling.

Louis's eyes traced the ceiling above him. He loved this room. He admired the texture of the ceiling, how it resembled ocean waves. He craved relaxation. He let his eyes flutter shut and breathed in deeply.

"Lou?"

So much for relaxation.

Zayn's voice purred outside their bedroom door. It sounded timid now, less aggravated.

"Wha'?" Louis asked firmly.

"Can I come in?"

Louis huffed. "Fine."

The door opened with a quiet squeak. Zayn stepped in silently. His feet padded across the carpet, his boxers hanging low on his hips. Louis watched as he approached the bedside with caution.

"Are you okay?" he wondered.

Louis blinked a few times before answering. "I'm just peachy, yeah. I  _love_ fighting with my fiance," he said sarcastically.

Zayn rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I— I'm really sorry."

"For what?"

"For being so irritable. I let my temper get the best of me. I had a shitty day and— and I guess I took it out on you," he confessed. His mouth pressed together, and his tongue poked at the silver ring in his bottom lip. Biting his lips was one of his nervous habits. Louis knew this.

Louis sighed deeply. "It's okay. I was a bitch, too. I guess I'm still upset about Jack."

Zayn frowned. "I never meant to lie to you. I was just trying to protect you. If I didn't stay on the gang's good side, I was afraid they'd hurt me." But then as an afterthought, he added, "and you, too."

Louis nodded and tapped the bed, gesturing for him to come closer. "Cuddle with me?"

Zayn smiled and climbed in. The cold, soft sheets welcomed him with comfort. He snuggled next to Louis until their noses nearly touched. Their legs tangled at the foot of the bed. His ankles knocked against Louis's.

"Let's agree to never fight again," Zayn begged. His thumb rubbed over the exposed skin on Louis's hip.

"I think that's impossible, love," Louis chuckled. "Fighting is normal in relationships. But we can try to understand each other better. I reckon we both need to work on our listening skills, yeah?"

Zayn nodded in agreement. "You sound like a couple's counselor," he teased.

A smile tugged on Louis's lips. "Thanks, Z. I'll take that as a compliment for my intelligence."

Zayn snickered. Little crinkles formed next to his eyes as he let out soft laughs. His breath tickled Louis's neck.

"Hey," Louis said, grabbing Zayn's chin. He lifted his head until their eyes locked like magnets. "Kiss me?"

To be honest, Louis needed it. He needed to kiss Zayn. He needed to prove to himself that there was still  _something_ between them. He didn't want to believe that their spark was gone. He already felt guilty for his infatuation with Harry.

Zayn kissed him and smiled against his lips. His warm arms snaked around Louis's waist and pulled him closer. His lips felt soft and familiar. As he nudged his tongue into Louis's mouth, he exhaled, and he tasted like smoke and mint toothpaste. It was a contradictory flavor.

He pulled Louis on top of him, so his thighs straddled either side of his waist. He let out a surprised gasp and planted his palms on Zayn's chest. He giggled and leaned down to kiss him again, this time more urgently, messily.

Everything would be alright. Or so he hoped.

°°°

"Morning, sunshine!"

Louis groaned in response. Zayn's perky voice was too cheerful at this ungodly hour in the morning. He snatched up the pillow next to him and pulled it over his head to cover his ears. He heard Zayn laugh, felt the mattress compress as he scooted closer.

"You've gotta go to work, love," Zayn insisted, tossing the pillow aside. Louis squinted his eyes open.

"You're awake before me," Louis grumbled. "That's odd."

Zayn laughed. "I have some errands to run before I go to school, 's all."

Louis glanced over at the alarm clock. It read 6:34. He was surprised he slept through the alarm at 6:30. He was normally a light sleeper. Even the slightest noise disturbed his slumber. Zayn, on the other hand, could sleep through atomic bombs.

Louis sighed as he ran a hand down his face. He already felt faint stubble growing on his chin, despite just shaving one day prior.

"Gimme five more minutes," Louis begged, swatting Zayn's shoulder.

"Your bath will be cold by then," he persisted.

"Huh?"

"I ran you a bubble bath. I hope the vanilla soap is alright. We ran out of your favorite coconut scent," Zayn rambled.

Louis grinned widely despite his lack of sleep. As he leaned up to kiss him, he felt a sharp pain in his bum. He winced.

"Shouldn't have agreed to round two last night," he mumbled, more to himself than Zayn.

Zayn laughed. "Yeah, I'm quite sore as well."

Louis giggled and patted Zayn's bum. Bless their versatility.

Zayn pecked his lips before pulling him out of bed. He led him to the bathroom. Louis trudged behind him, his tiny feet dragging like he had shackles on his ankles. When he stepped in the bathroom, he shivered. He only wore his (Zayn's) boxers, which fit loosely on his small hips. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Your tub awaits," Zayn said, gesturing to the bubble bath. The water looked inviting, a layer of vanilla-scented suds floating on top in a mountain of white. The room filled with steam.

"Thank you," Louis said. He kissed Zayn's cheek. "I really needed this."

Zayn gave him a hug and said goodbye, explaining that he had to leave to do his early-morning errands. Louis told him to have a nice day and vice versa.

After he left, Louis slipped down his underwear. He tip toed to the tub and settled in. The bubbles nearly reached his chin. He blew them out of his face and wiggled his toes to stir the foamy water.

The bath was the perfect temperature: not too hot, not too cold. He leaned back and stretched out his legs, thanking the heavens for their extra large tub.

He grabbed Zayn's pink loofah and squirted out a liberal amount of Axe body wash. As he scrubbed his arms and legs, he felt his worries wash away. The thick scent of vanilla seemed to calm his nerves. Today felt like a renewal.

°°°

The projector displayed a photo of Van Gogh's  _The_   _Starry Night_ on the wall. Blue and white paint created the canvas sky, dotted with yellow stars and a crescent moon. A village lied beneath the starry sky. Every student recognized it. It was one of the most famous paintings in history.

"Does anyone know when Van Gogh painted  _The Starry Night_?" Louis asked the class. The projector remote rested in his hand. His finger hovered over the 'next' button as he waited for Harry to answer. He seemed to know everything. He was a very clever young man.

Almost on cue, Harry raised his hand. The sleeves of his purple jumper drooped down to his elbows. A white bandanna held back his long hair. His light green eyes flickered between the projector screen and Mr. Tomlinson. He held his tongue between his pink lips as his brain dug up the correct date.

"Yes, Harry?"

"1898," he said quietly, barely audible over the buzz of the projector. He caught it, though. Of course he did.

"Correct," Louis confirmed with a short nod. "This was during the Dutch post-impressionism movement. Van Gogh actually painted this after admitting himself into an insane asylum. It was the view from his window."

Louis clicked the forward button and the slide changed, revealing a picture of Monet's  _Water Lily Pond_ painting. It depicted a pond overgrown with tall grasses and water lilies, a white bridge curving over it.

"Claude Monet painted this in 1890, around the same time as Van Gogh. You can see the similarities," he said, eyeing the thick, blotchy brushstrokes.

He glanced over to see Harry looking up in awe. Most students just stared in boredom with their arms crossed over their desks, but not Harry. He watched with a spark of interest in his eye.

The professor clicked the forward button. The next slide showed Grant Wood's  _American Gothic_. A man and a woman were painted in front of a white house, supposedly taking place in the American countryside. The man held a pitchfork in his hand, wrinkles forming in his pale skin.

"Wood painted this one in 1930," he began. He glanced back at the screen behind him. "He modeled these figures after his sister and their dentist. A lot of people admire this painting for its detail. Of course, I don't expect your projects to be quite as realistic as this. I personally prefer abstract, anyway."

There were a few chuckles, as if the class thought nobody could be capable of painting something so lifelike. Harry could, though. Harry could do anything.

Louis clicked the button again. It flipped to a slide of Picasso's  _The Weeping Woman_. It was an abstract piece with jagged lines forming the frame of a woman's face. Various shades of yellows, greens, and blues filled in the conceptual shapes. Scraggly lines carved out her nose and eyes and sobbing frown.

"I'm sure you'll all familiar with Picasso. 's not easy to forget his... peculiar paintings," Louis said, chuckling a bit. "So as you all can probably tell, the point of this slideshow was to show you the many ways to paint. You can create your own style. I'll give you the remainder of the hour to work on your projects, and remember, they're due next Friday!"

Louis flicked off the projector and turned on the lights. A few students winced as the sudden burst of brightness stung their adjusted eyes. Louis just  walked back to his desk, taking his laptop with him. He sat down in the spinny chair and opened up his e-mail as his students began painting. He scrolled through countless messages from the university, social networks, and Change.org. He signed  _one_ petition in 2014, and now they spam his e-mail on a daily basis, but he's far too lazy to unsubscribe.

"Um, Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis jumped a little in his seat, startled. He looked up to see a familiar pair of green eyes. Harry. He stood in front of his desk with his hands held in front of him, rocking softly on the heels of his boots. Multiple rings of silver and gold wrapped around his fingers. Handmade bracelets of all shapes and patterns covered his wrist. A little locket tattoo stained the skin underneath.

"Yeah?" Louis choked out eventually.

"I was just wondering if you had any... advice," he asked shyly.

Louis closed his laptop to give Harry his undivided attention. "I'm assuming you mean with the sixth project?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed, breathing out the word. "I guess I'm just lacking inspiration."

Louis smiled gently. "Well, that's peculiar for you."

"I know, it's weird. It's like I'm drawing a blank."

Louis understood. Harry was going through artist's block— like writer's block, but for artists. He sympathized with him.

"I want you to close your eyes," Louis said abruptly.

Harry paused. "What?"

"Just do it."

"Fine," Harry huffed.

His eyes fluttered shut, his lashes licking gently against his cheeks. He took a deep breath whilst he waited for the professor to continue.

"Okay. Now, think of your life as a movie in your head. The beginning, the exposition, the plot twist that has you at the edge of your seat. You got it?"

Harry's eyebrows scrunched a little, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Alright. Now pick a particular moment from that film— a moment that represents you. Something that reveals a large part of you, whether it be good or bad," Louis continued.

He couldn't help but notice how adorable Harry looked with his eyes closed, his cheeks puffy, his hair falling in front of his face, his lips parted as soft breaths escaped. He felt weak in his knees. He could stare at Harry for eternity. He was truly a work of art.

"I think— I think I got it," Harry huffed, squinting his eyes tighter, as if seeing more darkness would somehow help his art abilities.

"Alright. Now, I want you to—"

A sharp, high-pitched ring interrupted Louis's sentence. His phone vibrated and rang against his desk.  Harry's eyes snapped open.

"Aren't you gonna answer that?" he asked when Louis hesitated.

Louis narrowed his eyes at the screen. He didn't recognize the number.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Just wait a second, okay? I'll be right back," Louis said, snatching up his phone.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, okay."

He stood up from his desk, and his chair rolled behind him until it hit the wall a few feet away. As he answered, he held up his index finger to Harry as a reminder to wait.

" 'ello?" Louis said as he stepped out of the classroom. He couldn't properly hear with all those chatting students. Besides, he felt awkward answering a phone call right in front of Harry.

" _Louis?_ " Zayn's panicked voice responded. " _Louis, thank god you answered._ "

Louis leaned against the wall in the empty hallway. The university was composed of red bricks, including the halls, and checkers of black and white tiles lined the floors. They'd just been polished, and Louis could faintly see his distorted reflection in them as he pressed his phone closer to his ear.

"Zayn? Are you alright?"

" _No,_ " Zayn choked out. Louis could hear tears in his voice, stuttering his speak. " _I fu-fucked up. I'm s-so sorry._ "

"Love, calm down, I can't understand you," Louis said. His heart began racing.

" _I'm so sorry!_ " Zayn gasped. " _I didn't_ —  _I didn't know!_ "

Louis's grip tightened on the phone. Okay, this was something serious. His stomach began bubbling with nerves.

"What are you talking about? Tell me what's going on," Louis demanded.

" _They only allowed me one phone call_ ," Zayn sighed. " _So, I rang you. I messed up._ "

Louis shook his head to himself, confusion filling his mind. "Who's 'they'?"

" _The police,_ " Zayn sniffled. " _I was arrested. I'm at the police station._ "

Louis's heart dropped. "What?! What the fuck did you do?"

" _J-Jack threatened me yesterday. That's w-why I was so pissed off, because I_ —  _I was so scared that he'd hurt you. He said he saw you at the restaurant the other day, and that he'd hurt everyone I loved un-unless I did what he said._ "

Louis held his hand over his chest. He felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He braced his other hand on the nearby wall, held his phone between his shoulder and ear.

"What'd you do?" Louis asked. He felt tears prick his eyes. The familiar sting of heartbreak rumbled in his throat.

" _I-I had to give cocaine to this guy. A lot of it. And, it turns out, he was an undercover cop. I'm so fu-fucking stupid! I'm sorry,_ " Zayn rambled. " _I was trying to protect you_."

"Oh, Zayn," Louis said, inhaling a sharp breath of shock. "I'll come bail you out, okay? And we'll get you a great lawyer. We'll explain all of Jack's threats, and— and everything will be alright."

He heard Zayn choke out a sob as someone (an officer, Louis assumed) told him his time was almost up.

" _You can't bail me out_ ," Zayn cried. " _They're putting me on remand until my sentencing._ "

"Why?" Louis pressed. "Why the hell not?!"

" _Because th-they have suspicion that I'll commit another crime whilst on bail, or whatever, b-because of my alleged gang activity. Their words, not mine._ "

"Zayn," Louis huffed. "How could you be so reckless?"

" _I'm gonna be locked away for a long time_ ," he said, ignoring his question. " _I don't know how long. That's up for the court to decide, but_ —  _but it'll probably be a matter of years._ "

"Years?!" Louis said sharply. He began to panic. He squeezed the phone as his breathing quickened to an alarming rate. "Just for cocaine?"

Zayn paused. " _It wasn't just the cocaine. I had weed in my car, and— and an unlicensed gun._ "

"Oh my god," Louis said, hot tears slipping down his cheeks. "You're a special education teacher, Zayn. I thought you gave up your rebellious lifestyle to be a good guy for once in your life. How could you do this?"

" _I fucked up. I-I ruined everything! We were supposed to g-get married and live ha-happily ever after_ ," Zayn wept. He didn't cry often, but when he did, it was heart-shattering.

"You need to tell them about Jack threatening you! It won't let you off the hook entirely, but it might make your sentence shorter," Louis suggested. "It's not over yet, okay? We— we can make this work."

" _No, Lou, I can't rat Jack out. The gang will come after you. I p-put your life in danger. I'm so fucking sorry_ ," Zayn whimpered. " _There's no way out of this. It's over_."

"Zayn, please—"

" _I'm sorry this happened,_ " Zayn interrupted, his voice rushed. " _You'll be alright without me, okay? Just_ —  _just be safe._   _Promise me you'll be careful_."

Louis's bottom lip wobbled. His tears fogged up his eyesight, so he blinked them away.

"Why does it sound like you're saying goodbye?"

Zayn didn't respond for a few seconds, and for a moment, Louis wondered if he'd hung up. He clenched his teeth with frustration.

"Zayn? Fucking answer me!"

" _I have to go,_ " Zayn rushed. " _They're putting me in prison until my sentencing, but_ —  _but you can come visit me, okay?_ "

"Zayn, please don't say that. I need you!"

" _You're better off without me,_ " Zayn insisted, his voice quiet and slow. " _I'm sorry we had to end like this. I love you, alright? So much_.  _I don't deserve you_."

Louis swallowed his tears. "I love you, too," he promised. "Don't leave me—"

Before he could finish, he heard a ramble of "got to go" and "I'm sorry" and "they're taking me away."  Then, dead silence. A soft buzz indicated that he'd hung up.

Louis's hands trembled as he held back his phone. He felt light-headed, his entire body shaking with fear and shock. He couldn't believe such a thing would happen to Zayn,  _his_ Zayn, his fiance, the love of his life. Or rather, ex-fiance.

That thought sunk deep in his broken heart. He couldn't think properly. He was consumed by anger and worry and disappointment. He didn't know what to do. He felt like the walls were closing in around him, suffocating him, and he couldn't breathe.

He leaned his forehead against the wall and put both fists against it. He let the tears stain down his reddened cheeks. The bricks scraped against his knuckles as he dragged his hands across the wall, letting out soft sobs. He turned around and sunk down until his bum hit the ground, curled his knees to his chest.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis didn't bother looking up. He recognized Harry's voice.

"Are— are you crying?" Harry said softly.

He crouched next to his professor. Louis tucked his face into his knees. He whimpered as tears spilled out of his eyes. Harry always perceived Mr. Tomlinson as this strong, powerful, and wise man, so it felt different to see his vulnerability. Not bad, just... different.

"I— I can't—" Louis tried to choke out the words, but his sobs muted them. He could feel his entire body shaking, but he couldn't stop no matter how hard he tried.

"I, um, was just gonna check on you, 'cause a few students wanted your help with painting, but. Clearly that can wait," Harry soothed. Without hesitating, he wrapped his arm around Louis's shoulder and pulled him closer. The older man leaned his head against his shoulder and cried into his lavender sweater. Harry could feel his tears dripping down his neck, but he didn't mind. He rubbed gentle circles on Louis's back, trying to calm his nerves.

"Can I— um, can I get you anything? Like, water? Tissues?" Harry offered. Louis had brought so much happiness into his life. He wanted to return the favor, or at least try.

"No," Louis breathed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with the palms of his hands. "I just— fuck. Zayn—"

He couldn't finish his sentence. He whimpered into Harry's shoulder again. He smelled sweet, sugary. Like cotton candy. Louis needed to grab something, touch something, just to prove he was actually awake and not in some fucked-up nightmare. He clutched onto Harry for dear life.

"Zayn? Your fiance?" Harry asked a few seconds later, voice pitched up a bit. "What happened? Was that him on the phone?"

Louis nodded into his shoulder. As he moved his head, Harry felt his warm lips brush over his collarbone.

"He— he's gone," Louis wheezed.

Harry stilled. "Gone, as in...?"

Louis shook his head. "He's— he's not dead, but he— he—"

He couldn't say it, not like this, tearing up in the middle of an empty hallway in the university. No, Zayn wasn't dead, but it still hurt. He was dead to Louis.

Very faintly, he breathed out "jail." Harry's heart ached.

"I'm sorry," Harry hushed. "I know how it feels to have someone who's supposed to love you locked away. It— it's really difficult to deal with."

When Louis pulled away, his face was flushed pink, his nose sniffling with tears, and his hair all messy and disheveled. His stomach lurched with nervousness. How could he live without Zayn by his side? It all seemed so foreign. He'd become accustomed to waking up next to him.

"Can you— um, do you want to go home?" Harry asked, fingers toying with the ends of his sleeves.

Louis wiped a few stray tears under his eyes. "I— I can't just  _leave_."

"You're in no condition to teach, Mr. Tomlinson," Harry insisted. "You look like you're five seconds away from a panic attack."

Louis wanted to protest, say that he was fine, but he couldn't. He wasn't fine.

"Why don't you go out to your car and ring your boss, the university director? Mr. Eldridge, isn't it? Tell him that you're leaving early— that it's an emergency. They'll find a substitute," Harry suggested. He saw reluctance in Louis's eyes, so he continued, "I'm sure your students won't mind missing class, anyway."

Louis's lungs felt tighter than usual, probably from all the crying, but perhaps also from Harry's charm. "I— I don't know," he stuttered, voice low and quiet.

"I'll drive you, okay? I don't think it's safe for you to drive like this," he doubted, noting the tears in Louis's eyes, his heavy breathing, and his insistent trembling.

"Can you— can you even drive?" Louis asked.

"I have my license, Mr. Tomlinson, if that's what you're asking. I just don't have a car, 's all. Gemma uses it on weekdays."

"What a-about your oth-other classes?"

Harry waved his hand to dismiss it. "I don't mind missing a boring lecture about the fundamentals of technical drawing," he promised. "Just let me help you, okay?"

Louis's heart swelled. "Okay. Thank y-you, Harry."

Harry squeezed his hand with reassurance. "You're welcome, Mr. Tomlinson."

With his arm looped around the professor's shoulder, Louis and Harry walked out of the university. Louis felt rebellious just leaving his job like that, but at the same time, he truly didn't care at this point. If he lost his job, he'd survive. He just wanted to leave as soon as possible— no, he  _needed_  to leave. Would probably fall into a state of shock and anxiety if he stayed.

The early-winter air brushed against their faces as they walked outside. Harry struggled to open the heavy doors, the strong wind fighting to keep them closed. Above them, grey clouds rolled across the dull sky, threatening to bring snow. A layer of frost covered every windshield in the lot. As they moved towards Louis's car, Harry could feel Louis shiver underneath his arm. He didn't know whether it was from his nerves, the cold, or perhaps both.

"Keys?" Harry asked quietly.

Louis fished through his pocket and gave him a ring of mismatched keys. Harry thanked him silently with a nod.

He unlocked the door and climbed in the driver's seat. Louis slid in the passenger's side. Harry's knees knocked against the steering wheel, so he reached down to yank up the handle, pushed the seat backwards a bit.

Louis let out a quiet laugh through his tears. "I'm— I'm really short," he huffed.

"No, you're not. I'm just really tall," Harry assured.

He turned on the engine. It purred loudly, and he flicked on the wipers for a few seconds, flaking away all the frost. His car smelled clean, an artificial scent of freshness masking the stench of cigarette smoke. An air freshener shaped like a pine tree hung around the rear-view mirror. It swayed back and forth as he reversed the car.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched Louis lean his head against the window. His temple pressed against the cold glass, his eyelashes batting against his cheeks. He'd never seen someone so fragile. He wished he could take all the pain out of Louis's heart.

"Mr. Eldridge said he'll send a substitute to the class," Louis hummed, reading over his phone screen.

"Told you everything would be alright," Harry murmured. He pulled up to a stop sign outside of the university.

"Turn left here," Louis instructed. He wasn't crying anymore. He probably ran out of tears. But his voice was softer than usual, filled with distress and sadness.

Harry continued to drive down the bumpy road, his hands tightening around the steering wheel until his knuckles paled. Louis switched on the heaters. The air smelled like dust.

"Turn right," Louis said abruptly.

Harry swerved the car down a narrow street, revealing a series of small, suburban homes. Whilst they drove in silence, Louis's brain started to buzz with unknowns.

"What am I going to do without him," Louis breathed, uncertain of the future.

"You'll be okay," Harry said. "Maybe he'll only be locked up for a couple days, yeah?"

"No," Louis sighed pessimistically. "It'll be a few years, at least."

Harry frowned. "You know, when my dad was arrested—"

"Harry," Louis interrupted, tilting his head to the side, "you don't have to, like, try to make me feel better."

Harry pursed his lips. "I'm not."

"Alright."

"Alright," Harry echoed. They fell into an awkward silence. The buzz of the heater and the rumble of the engine filled the lack of conversation.

"That's our house," Louis mumbled. "The one with the brown roof and square windows— on the left."

Harry switched on his blinker and turned into the gravel driveway. Pebbles and dirt crunched underneath the tires. He put the car in park, sending him lurching forward a bit. His hand fell to his seat belt and unclicked it.

"I, um, thanks for driving me home," Louis said, sniffing.

Okay, so he was crying again. Harry's heart ached. He hated seeing Mr. Tomlinson so upset. 

"You're welcome," Harry replied, reaching into his back pocket.

He pulled out his iPhone. Louis noticed his Ed Sheeran phone case and bit back a smile. The case was black with Ed's name written across it, followed by a small, orange paw print. Of course Harry loved Ed Sheeran. He was personification of sappy love songs.

"I'll text Gem. She can pick me up." When he unlocked his phone, Louis caught a glimpse of his lockscreen: his sister sitting on his lap, cheesy grins on both their faces.

"Don't," Louis panicked. His hand fell on Harry's thigh. Harry noticed tears glistening in his eyes again.  "I— I don't want to be alone. Please."

And, really, how could Harry say 'no' to that?

He nodded. "Yeah, sure. I could spare a few hours."

The two of them walked inside. Louis unlocked the front door, but his hands were quivering, so it took a few tries. Plus, his tears blurred his eyesight, no matter how hard he tried to blink them away. He felt disoriented as he walked inside, like he couldn't believe this was actually his reality.

His chest tightened as soon as he closed the door behind them. His first thought, of course, was Zayn. He noticed his combat boots on the welcome mat, his ash tray on the coffee table, his artwork on the walls, his face in their photos. But not Zayn himself.

Harry stood in the foyer awkwardly. He didn't know what to do with himself.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry wondered.

Louis shrugged. "I— I don't know what I want," he confessed. "I don't know what to do. I can't  _function_ without Zayn. I just— I don't—"

"Hey," Harry cut him off. He placed his hand on his shoulder. A single tear escaped out of the corner of Louis's eye and trickled down his smooth cheek. "Deep breaths, yeah?"

Louis nodded. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. Harry smiled.

"There we go," Harry soothed. "Zayn's not dead, understand? He's still here. He's just going away for a bit. You need to relax. I know it sucks, but it's not the end of the world."

Louis bit his lip. "We were supposed to get married."

"Can't you wait a few years?"

Louis shook his head. "When I talked to him on the phone, he sounded like he just wanted to end it, y'know? Said he'd be gone for a long time— that I deserved better."

"I think so, too."

"Think what?"

"That you deserve better."

Louis scoffed. "How can you say that, Harry? You don't even know Zayn."

"Oh, but I know his type," Harry assured.

"No, you don't," Louis argued. "Zayn wasn't a criminal. He just had a bad past, and it came back to haunt him."

Before Harry could respond, Louis asked, "Can we just sit down, please? I'll make us some tea."

Harry followed Louis under the kitchen archway. Louis shuffled over to the stove and grabbed the kettle, filled it up, and left it to simmer on the hob. Whilst he prepared the tea, Harry took a seat at the kitchen island, pushing back a stool. Its legs scraped against the wooden floors. It was tall, so Harry's feet dangled a few inches off the ground.

Harry watched Louis as he turned his back away. His green eyes traced his spine, his sharp shoulder blades, and his pretty hips. His tight jeans hugged his bum, and his t-shirt bunched up above his arse, falling into the curves of his body. Harry bit his lip. Okay, yeah. He was weak.

"It was drugs, by the way," Louis mumbled, turning around and leaning against the counter. He crossed his muscley arms over his chest. His biceps bulged in his tight shirt.

"What?"

"Zayn was arrested for drugs and, um, having an unlicensed gun in his car," Louis said, dropping his gaze to the floor.

Harry's eyes widened. To be honest, he wasn't expecting that. His previous knowledge of Zayn was limited to what Louis had told him— that Zayn taught art to kids with disabilities, that he proposed to Louis in 2013, and that he was a bit younger than Louis, but not by much. So needless to say, this caught Harry off guard.

"Oh," he said eventually.

"Yeah," Louis drawled. He shook his head with disbelief. "I never even knew he had a gun in the first place. He knew I hated them."

Harry frowned. The word 'gun' always set him off, but he tried to suppress his inner-terror. He wanted to be calm for Louis, didn't want to make a fool of himself.

"Can't you bail him out?" he asked timidly, pulling at one of his sweater sleeves.

"No," Louis sighed. "They put him on remand."

Harry stayed silent for a few seconds. "I'm really sorry."

" 's not your fault," Louis huffed. He turned around to tend to the tea. He switched off the stove and fetched two mugs from the cupboards. Tea drizzled into the mug as he tilted the kettle, its spout dipping past the mug's rim. He raised his brow. "Milk or sugar?"

"Erm, just a bit of sugar, please," Harry asked quietly. He suddenly felt insecure being here. He worried that Mr. Tomlinson thought he was coming on too strong.

Louis plopped in two sugar cubes. Small bubbles rose to the surface as they dissolved in the hot liquid. He passed the mug to Harry, who smiled and thanked him under his breath. His large hands wrapped around the mug and brought it to his lips. Louis watched with adoration as Harry's lips curled and sipped loudly, his eyes fluttering as the steam warmed his cheeks.

"So," Louis sighed, taking a seat next to Harry. The stools were close, and their knees knocked together, less than an inch of space between their thighs. This small amount of physical contact sent a pang of nervousness to the professor's stomach.

"So," Harry repeated, urging him on.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that," Louis apologized, grimacing. Harry gave him a look of confusion, so he continued, "Y'know, crying and stuff. I was a proper mess."

Harry shrugged. "Everyone cries. I can't blame you," he murmured. "Besides, that's a normal reaction to somethin' like that. I'd actually be concerned if you  _didn't_ react like that."

Louis felt a sharp sting in the back of his throat. No, he told himself. You're not going to cry again.

"I— I guess I'm afraid of, like, being alone," Louis admitted solemnly. "Which is stupid because, like, I never had a real, um, boyfriend before Zayn, or at least none that mattered."

When he was nervous, Louis used filler words, like "um," "like," and "uh." Throughout the semester, Harry had picked up on Mr. Tomlinson's little habits, including this one.

"I know it's scary, but everything will be alright," Harry soothed, sensing his anxiety. "You'll find someone worthy, okay? I know you love Zayn, and it hurts right now, but it's only temporary."

Louis sighed. He hoped Harry was right.

"Speaking of which," Harry hummed. He pointed to the photograph on the wall. It hung crookedly on a nail, the wooden frame tilting downwards. "Is that Zayn?"

Harry expected Zayn to look... different. Maybe a bit softer, with a cherub face and gentle features. But Zayn was the total opposite. He was sharp and defined, with the longest eyelashes he'd ever seen in his nineteen years of living. He looked like he was wearing proper mascara.

"Yeah," Louis said weakly. "Quite a handsome one, yeah?"

"You could say that," Harry scoffed. He narrowed his eyes at the picture. "Looks like a supermodel."

Louis looked down at his hands, fiddled with his silver watch. He then noticed his engagement ring, still snug around his finger. He never wanted to take it off. It would make this all too  _real_.

"I'm sorry," Harry said a few seconds later. "I'm not helping, am I? I shouldn't have mentioned Zayn. I'll just stop talking."

Louis lifted his face. He looked absolutely miserable. His cheeks were still puffy from crying so much. Bites cut into the flesh of his pink, soft lips. His irises had a green-tint to them in his dark lighting, like lake water, with little ripples of blue throughout. Harry understood why Louis taught art. He was a masterpiece on his own.

"No, keep talking," Louis encouraged. "I quite prefer your voice over the silence."

"Really? I've got a morbid voice."

Louis laughed, crinkles forming next to his eyes. "It's lovely. Everything about you is lovely," he confessed. He was still drunk on sadness. He couldn't stop the words from coming out.

"Thanks," Harry chirped, unable to say anything else.

"No problem," Louis huffed, pushing his tea aside. He reached into his back pocket and fished out a half-empty carton of cigarettes and a lighter. The Bic lighter was made of orange, translucent plastic that revealed its internal mechanics. He plucked out a cigarette and placed it between his lips, then brought the lighter up to the tip, flicking the flame against it for a second or two.

"You want one?" Louis offered, thrusting the carton towards Harry.

Harry slowly shook his head. "I don't smoke."

"No?"

"No. It's a filthy habit," he criticized, suppressing a grimace. Regardless, he couldn't help but find it undeniably sexy as Louis puffed out a cloud of smoke, the cigarette laced between his pretty fingers.

"Suit yourself," Louis shrugged. Normally he wouldn't give a student a cigarette, wouldn't even think about it, but right now his mind felt loopy.

Harry bit his lip. "You really shouldn't do that."

"What?"

"Smoke."

Louis sighed heavily. "I'm not, like, addicted. Not like Zayn. I just do it when I'm stressed or nervous."

Harry raised his brow. "You're nervous?" he asked. Louis nodded. "About what?"

"Zayn," Louis said flatly. "Also, you."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Me?" he wondered, placing his hand over his chest.

"Yeah."

"Why do I make you nervous?"

"You're in my fucking house, for crying out loud, and you're my student," Louis said, cigarette bobbing between his chapped lips as he spoke. "And I just said 'fucking' in front of you. Add that to the list of reasons why I'm a terrible professor."

Harry didn't understand. His expression filled with confusion. "You're the best teacher I've ever had, Mr. Tomlinson," he complimented. "And, if me being here makes you nervous, I can leave. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

Louis rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes fluttering with frustration. "No, no. Not at all. It's just..." His voice faded into silence.

"It's just?" Harry pressed.

"Nothing. Never mind," he mumbled and tapped the edge of his cigarette on the nearby ashtray. Flecks of grey dust fell into the pit of dead ashes.

"Okay," Harry said softly.

Their gazes met for a few seconds. Louis's pools of blue connected with Harry's depths of green, bonded, magnetic. There was a certain tension between them. Louis could feel the line of professionalism shattering.

"I'm sorry for making things weird," Louis blurted out.

"You didn't. Things have always been weird."

Louis opened his mouth to apologize again, but Harry interrupted.

"But it's a good sort of weird," Harry rationalized. "I like it."

Louis felt relieved. "Yeah, me too."

A few seconds of silence passed between them. Harry listened to the grandfather clock ticking in the living room. He started fumbling with his bracelets out of agitation and worry.

"Can I, um, ask you something?" he asked quietly.

Louis let out a huff of smoke. "Yeah, of course."

"Why do you treat me differently than the rest of your students?" he questioned. When Louis didn't respond, he added, "I mean, like, do you see any other students outside of class?"

Louis cleared his throat. "No, not like this," he said, gesturing between the two of them.

"No?"

"No. You're just special, Styles."

A tint of pink rose to his cheeks. "Oh, okay. Just wondering."

"Why? Do you see any other professors outside of class?" Louis pondered. He felt jealous at the thought— Harry spending time with other older men, taking them to art museums, flirting with them via assignments and cryptic projects. This sudden surge of possessiveness spread through his veins like wildfire.

"No," Harry answered. "I'm still mute to all the others, to be honest. I don't trust them."

Louis hummed with satisfaction. "Good."

"Good?" Harry repeated. He raised the steaming mug to his lips.

"Yeah. You shouldn't trust them," Louis babbled, letting his mind speak freely. "Don't want them taking advantage of you."

Harry nearly choked on his tea. He coughed a few times before asking, "Taking advantage of me?"

Louis just shrugged. "Yeah, I mean, some of the professors are quite creepy. I should know. I  _work_ with them," he pointed out. "Like, I once heard a history professor in the staffroom talk about a female student's boobs. It's unprincipled, to say the least."

Harry's lips curved into an amused smile. "Why should I trust  _you_ , then?"

"Because I'm a gentleman. And you have a good judgement of character."

"Right," Harry said, dragging out the word with a bit of sarcasm.

"Right," Louis echoed with sincerity.

He was pushing the limits. He needed to stop, keep it professional, but he couldn't. His desire to forget about Zayn drove him near insanity. He cared about Harry, a lot, and here he was with his perfect hair and gorgeous smile and pretty eyes. And here Louis was with a broken heart.

"Do you think this is wrong?" Harry asked abruptly.

Louis didn't need clarification. He knew he was referring to their slightly non-platonic relationship.

"No," he lied.

"But it's a little weird, yeah?"

Louis shrugged. "It doesn't have to be."

Harry fell silent, unsure of how to respond. Louis thought back to when Harry never spoke, how they only communicated with stares and the slightest movements. That ability still remained, despite Harry's vocalization. Louis knew Harry felt awkward about their student-teacher "friendship," but at the same time, he never wanted it to end.

"Is that, um— did you paint that?" Harry speaks up, pointing to the frame on the wall. It was a bowl of fruit that contained apples and bananas and oranges. Bright colors and gentle brush strokes filled the painting.

"No," Louis breathed, smoke blowing past his lips. "That was Zayn. Most of the artwork in here is Zayn's, actually. He's very proud of it." His eyes watered at the mention of his name, but Harry tried his best to ignore it.

The youngest frowned. "And you're not?"

"Not what?"

"Not proud of your work."

Louis chewed on his bottom lip. "I'm proud to be a teacher, yes, but I'm an amateur artist."

Harry scoffed. "Amateur? Please, Mr. Tomlinson. You're fantastic."

"No—"

"Yes," Harry interrupted. "I've seen what you can do. It's remarkable. Art comes to you as naturally as breathing."

Louis blushed at the compliment, his tears long forgotten. "Thanks."

"Just saying the truth," Harry dismissed and took a sip of his tea.

It was a slow swallow, one that made his Adam's Apple bob up and down, and it was then that Louis noticed the obscenity of Harry's neck. He had gorgeous collarbones that poked out from the scooped neck of his purple jumper. The oversized sweater fell halfway down his shoulder, revealing more alabaster skin, all smooth and silky. And his neck—  _oh_ , his neck— was so pretty and pale, begging to be bitten into.

"You alright?" Harry asked, breaking Louis's train of thought.

Louis fidgeted in his seat, inhaled sharply around the cigarette. "Just perfect," he sighed.

"Oh, shit," Harry cursed, touching Louis's wrist to check the time. He tapped the glass covering of Louis's watch, the little hands ticking inside. It was nearly noon. The simplest touch sent Louis into a daze. "Is that the time? I really have to go. Gem should be expecting me any minute now."

Louis nodded. "Yeah, okay. Do you want a ride home?"

Harry paused. "Are you sure you're okay to drive now?"

Louis smiled weakly and smoldered his cigarette butt in the ashtray. "Yeah, I'm alright. I think I just needed some time to calm down."

Harry gestured towards the door as Louis grabbed his keys. "Alright, then. Let's go.

°°°

Louis's brakes squealed as he stopped in front of Harry and Gemma's flat. Harry sat in the passenger's seat with his hands on the glovebox, making a makeshift drum with his tapping fingers. Tove Lo's "Talking Body" played through the car's speakers, and Harry sang along quietly, muttering the words under his breath.

"Swear it won't take you long, if you love me right, we fuck for life, on and on and on," he hummed.

Louis felt a shiver down his spine. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, small knobs protruding from his pale skin. Okay, yeah. He was definitely flustered now. Listening to Harry sing about sex wasn't a good idea. Before he could finish the next verse, Louis switched off the radio.

"Right, well," the professor said, clearing his throat. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Tomorrow," Harry agreed, dimples and all. He opened up the car door and began to step out, but Louis stopped him, grabbing his shoulder. Harry's muscles tensed under his touch.

"Wait, um, I just— I want to thank you for helping me earlier," Louis expressed genuinely. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there. Probably would've fainted or, like, cried to death."

Harry tilted his head a bit. "I doubt you can actually  _cry_ to death, but I'm glad I could help," he chuckled.

Louis's grin faded into a look of sincerity. "Really, though. Thank you. I appreciate you, y'know?"

Harry waved his hand to dismiss it. " 's fine, Mr. Tomlinson. It was the least I could do because you've done a lot for me, too."

Louis flushed with pride. "I try."

Before Harry could reply, a voice called out from the balcony above them. Gemma stood there with her palms pressed to the metal railing. An array of flower pots and hanging baskets surrounded her, withering away in the cold weather. Squinting his eyes, Louis could see that she had brown hair like Harry, although it was a few shades lighter and less curly. He recognized her somewhere. He bit his lip for a few seconds and— aha! He saw her at the mall a few weeks ago with Harry. Back when he thought Harry was actually straight.

Gemma wore light blue skinny jeans and a knee-length cardigan to block the chilly breeze. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Harry, where have you been?" she demanded.

Harry's eyes widened. He looked back at Mr. Tomlinson worriedly. "What should I tell her?" he whispered.

Louis frowned as if it was obvious. "That I'm a friend from university."

Harry raised his brow. "But I thought you said this isn't wrong?" he recalled, gesturing between the two of them. "Why can't I tell her the truth?"

"Well, I— I don't  _think_ it's wrong, but your sister might disagree."

Louis had a point. Gemma had always been overly-protective of Harry, and with good reason. At the ages of six and ten, they lost their parents and their innocence. They grew up under the guardianship of their aunt, Jane, and their uncle, Alex. But they didn't really  _care_ about Gemma and Harry, thought of them as a burden.

Plus, they had to share a tiny three-bedroom house with their two cousins, Mark and Dana. Needless to say, it caused a great deal of tension. When Harry became mute, their aunt and uncle refused to seek professional help. They brushed it off as a phase. That's why Harry only ever spoke to Gemma. He didn't trust the others. So when Gemma turned eighteen, she became his legal guardian, and they packed their things and left.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, nodding in agreement.

"Harry!" Gemma repeated, louder this time. "Don't make me come down there!"

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'll see you later, Mr. Tomlinson. Text me if you need to talk about anything," he offered.

That warmed Louis's heart— knowing that Harry would be willing to listen. He smiled and gave him a short wave.

"Bye, Styles."

"Bye, Tomlinson," he said, closing the car door behind him.

°°°

Louis spent the remainder of the day on the verge of tears. Everything reminded him of Zayn, so he had to find a distraction. He busied himself by looking through his students' fifth projects, their photographs. He tucked Harry's picture aside. It was special.

He spent hours looking through those photos. Some were breathtakingly beautiful while others lacked originality, but he decided to give them all one hundred percent. He was too tired and sad to lower their grades.

As Louis settled in that night, it felt... different. The bed was half empty. It felt colder, lonelier, and he found himself clutching a pillow to his chest to find comfort. He hugged it tightly, inhaling the scent of Zayn's cologne.

Their bedroom was vacant. He imagined Zayn all alone in a prison cell, asleep on a cold bed with nothing but a thin blanket. He thought about the scratchy, orange uniform, how it probably irritated his skin. He must've been so,  _so_ scared.

He fell asleep with tears staining his cheeks.

°°°

The following day, Louis walked into his classroom with tired eyes and an aching heart. He carried a travel mug filled with coffee in his hand, black with only a dash of sugar. He liked it bitter. He took a sip as he unlocked his door, jiggling the key a few times before it clicked. His weary arms struggled to open it.

His classroom felt cold and empty. The windows in the back never fully shut, the latches were broken, but the university refused to fix them no matter how many times he complained. A little crack at the bottom of each window let in a constant breeze of winter air. He rubbed his palms against the warm mug and sat down at his desk. Most of the tables were crooked, the chairs left out of place, but he was too tired to fix them.

He opened his laptop and pressed the power button, listening to the intermittent  _buzz_ as it booted up. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he replied to a few e-mails.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis looked up towards the scratchy voice. His boss, the university director, stood in the doorway. He wore a tight suit that barely stretched around his barrel belly. A red tie looped around his neck, the tip falling in the center of his chest. His grizzled hair (or lack thereof) was combed back, balding at the top of his shiny head.

"Hello, Mr. Eldridge," Louis said with a nod. He stood up from his desk and stumbled over to shake the man's hand.

"I'm glad to see you're back in class," he said with a raspy chuckle.

Louis paused. "Yes. I'm very sorry about leaving so abruptly yesterday."

Mr. Eldridge held up his hand. "No, it's quite alright. No need to apologize. We all have bad days," he sympathized. "However, I do expect you to make up for it. Keep your classes on schedule."

Louis nodded. "Yes, of course, sir."

The old man glanced at the clock on the wall. "We still have a few minutes until your first class starts. Why don't you show me some of your students' work, yeah?"

Louis smiled. "Yeah, I'd love to. Follow me."

He guided Mr. Eldridge towards a drying rack near the window, where canvases lay randomly, dried paint clinging to the white surfaces. Splatters of color coated the metal structure. He removed one and examined it, eyeing the name at the bottom. It was Quinn's, who was the second most talented student in his class, next to Harry.

The canvas was fairly large, almost too big to fit in Louis's arms. The painting was nowhere near finished, but she'd sketched out an outline with pencil and painted the background with watercolor. A blue sky filled the horizon, filled with puffs of white clouds. Her brushstrokes were careful and short, little flicks of pastel cyan.

"Remarkable," Mr. Eldridge said, eyeing the canvas with awe. "You're the best art professor we've ever had at this university, Mr. Tomlinson. You should be very proud of yourself."

Louis grinned with pride. "Thank you, sir."

Before Mr. Eldridge could ask about the significance of this project, a soft, bubbly voice interrupted.

"Hey, Louis! Did you get my text? I just—  _oh_."

Louis and Mr. Eldridge both turned around to see Harry there, a look of surprise on his face. He didn't expect Louis to have company. His mouth formed into a silent 'o.' Louis's boss looked at him suspiciously.

"Who's this?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Louis stuttered to answer, "Um, t-this is Harry. Harry Styles. He's one of my students."

Harry gave a weak smile and waved, unable to give a verbal greeting.

Mr. Eldridge raised an eyebrow. "One of your  _students_?" he said quietly, emphasizing the last word.

Louis felt nervous. This probably seemed completely improper and unprofessional. He wished Harry hadn't barged in like that, calling him by his first name, admitting that he  _texted_ him like one of his best mates.

"Yes," Louis said, but it sounded like a question rather than a confirmation.

The university director nodded slowly, eyeing Harry up and down. "Right, well." He cleared his throat. "Have a nice day, Mr. Tomlinson."

Mr. Eldridge left without another word, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the tiled floors. He walked past Harry without acknowledging his existence. Harry stared at his feet as the man left the room, refusing to make eye contact. His face flushed pink with embarrassment. When Mr. Eldridge's footsteps disappeared down the hallway, he finally looked up. His eyes glistened on the verge of tears when he saw the disappointment on Mr. Tomlinson's face.

"I'm sorry," Harry rushed to say. "I didn't know—"

" 's fine," Louis sighed, running a hand down his face tiredly. "Let's just hope he doesn't get the wrong idea."

Harry froze. "And what would that be?"

"That you and I have, like, a  _thing_ ," Louis grumbled, sitting at his desk again. His eyes glued to his laptop screen, its glow turning his face slightly blue.

"A thing," Harry repeated slowly.

"Yeah, y'know, a secret relationship or whatever," Louis explained.

"But we know that's false, so why does it matter?" Harry wondered and leaned against his desk. He planted his bum on the corner and looked at Louis with a raised eyebrow. His long hair framed his face, cascading to his shoulders in gentle waves. He wore a bandanna to tame it. The headscarf was blue and red and matched his plaid shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his torso.

"It matters because some people might think otherwise."

"But—"

"It's better to be safe than sorry, Harry," Louis murmured, his gaze never leaving his laptop. "You just have to be more cautious, alright?"

There was a certain sternness to his voice that set Harry off. He nodded as his body filled with guilt. He couldn't help but feel like he upset Louis, annoyed him with his clinginess, his inability to act professionally at university. Silently, he walked back to his desk and waited for class to start.

He didn't speak for the rest of the day.

°°°

"Why can't I keep my mouth shut, Gem?" Harry asked, stuffing his face with more ice cream. He slurped around the metal spoon and swallowed. He was sprawled out on his couch with a tub of Ben & Jerry's in his lap, a blanket covering his legs. They were watching a program on the telly, some documentary about dinosaurs, but Harry lost interest in a matter of minutes.

Gemma perked up at that. She sat in the rocking chair nearby. "What do you mean?"

Harry grumbled, a pout forming on his lips. "I just— I finally opened up to someone. I usually don't talk to people, so when I do, it's a big deal for me. But I feel like every time I speak, I end up hurting someone."

Gemma reached for the remote and turned down the volume, giving Harry her undivided attention. She raised an eyebrow. "Is this about that boy? The one who drove you home?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah."

She huffed. "Boys are dumb, Harry. Take it from me."

"Heeey," Harry said defensively. "I'm a boy."

Gemma chuckled. "Well, every boy besides you, of course."

"But  _I'm_  the one who fucked up. I said something I shouldn't have," he admitted with a frown.

Gemma tilted her head a bit. "And did you apologize?"

"I tried."

"Well, if he's a good guy, he'll forgive you. You made a mistake. I'm sure he's made mistakes in his life, too," she reasoned.

Harry shrugged. "I guess so. I just wish I could take it back. Because of me, he's kinda at risk for losing his job," he murmured, deciding to keep out specific details.

Gemma's eyes widened. "What'd you say?"

Harry bit his lip. "I, um, accidentally said something inappropriate in front of his boss. Leave it at that."

Gemma reached over, patted his shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sorry, Harry."

" 's alright," he mumbled. He took another bite of ice cream, licking his lips.

Gemma paused. "Will I ever get to meet this mysterious boyfriend of yours?"

Harry nearly choked on his spoon. "Boyfriend?!" he scoffed. "He's not my boyfriend, Gems. Just a mate."

"Oh. I just assumed..."

"No. We're not dating."

She nodded. "Okay, so he's not gay?"

"No, he is. That's not the problem," Harry sighed. "It's just complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Yeah. Even if I  _did_ like him, it wouldn't work out," he mumbled.

"I see," she hummed, even though she didn't understand.

He clearly didn't want to discuss it further, so Gemma returned her attention to the telly, turning the volume back up. Harry slumped into the couch and swallowed another spoonful of ice cream. He glanced at his phone. It was late, almost 10:00 PM. He wondered if Mr. Tomlinson was still awake.

He wanted to text him. He wanted to sort things out between them, so it wouldn't be awkward anymore. But he didn't know what to say.

He clicked on Louis's name. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to type. Eventually he settled for: " _I'm sorry about today._ "

In a matter of seconds, he received a reply. " _it's ok. i shouldn't have snapped at u. i guess i was still upset about zayn._ "

Harry frowned at that. He imagined how lonely and heartbroken he must feel.

" _I'm sorry. :(_ "

He really wanted Louis to feel better, to laugh, so he sent him a few funny photos. The first was a picture of "American Gothic," except the man and woman looked punk, with black eyeliner and skulls on their clothes. Harry enjoyed puns and cheesy jokes— maybe a little too much.

The second photo was a portrait of Monet with the caption, "fuck bitches, get Monet." He giggled as he pressed the 'send' button.

About a minute or so passed. Harry began to worry. What if Louis thought he was trying too hard? What if—

His phone beeped, a response lighting up on his screen.

" _hahaha, thanks for that. haven't laughed that much in a while. :) x_ "

Harry grinned with pride. He stared at that little 'x' for a long time, overthinking its significance. He felt bubbles in his tummy.

Everything would be alright.

°°°

The next day, Harry arrived late to class. The heavy snowfall made his short walk unbearable. He trudged through the ice in his glittery boots, not suitable for winter weather, but stylish nonetheless. He wore a thick coat that reached mid-thigh, the inside lined with faux fur. The wind nipped at his nose as he walked down the pavement towards the university.

The sky was dull and grey, little wisps of white clouds striping the horizon. As he passed by the graveyard, he stole a glance at his mother's headstone through the iron fence. He noted the bright colours of red roses and yellow tulips, the latter being her favourite. He placed flowers there on a regular basis. Some of his best memories with his mother took place in her garden. Perhaps that's why Harry adopted her old habit, turning their balcony into a makeshift flower garden.

When he stepped into class, his face looked red, both from embarrassment and the cold. His hair was damp with melted snow. His boots squeaked along the floor as he found his seat, trying to ignore the stares from other students. He muttered a quick apology to Louis as he passed by.

Louis cleared his throat in response. His blue eyes followed Harry as he sat down. He knew Harry didn't like the awkward attention, so he clapped his hands together, drawing all gazes to himself.

"Now that everyone's here, we can get started," the professor said with a grin. "Today, I'm going to walk around the class and examine your work thus far. This sixth project is the most important, worth the most amount of points, so I want to make sure you're all on the right track. Let me know if you have any questions, okay?"

With that, the students began painting. He switched on the boombox in the front of the room, filling the small room with "inspirational" music to spark their creativity. He watched with amusement as canvases, paint bottles, and brushes littered the wooden tables.

He walked around the class from desk-to-desk, disappointed to find that some students hadn't even  _started_ painting yet. They claimed to still be in the "brainstorming" phase. He wished they could take this course more seriously, rather than waiting until the last second to turn in the most important assignment of the semester.

He felt even more disappointed when he discovered that Harry, of all people, was one of them. He hadn't begun the project yet. A blank canvas sat in front of him without a single stroke of paint. The brush laced between his long fingers, and he pressed the tip to the white surface, but nothing happened. Louis furrowed his eyebrows.

"Why haven't you started?" Louis asked, taking the empty seat next to him.

Harry shrugged and pushed the half-empty acrylic paint bottles aside. "I dunno," he murmured quietly, making sure his voice was only audible to Louis. "You might as well fail me for this project because I can't do it."

Louis frowned. "What are you talking about, Harry? You're exceptionally talented."

Harry bit his lip. "I guess I'm going through a bit of artist's block."

Louis understood. He'd gone through artist's block several times in his life. Sometimes he went  _months_ without feeling any creativity or inspiration. It was indescribably frustrating— wanting to do something artistic, but lacking the energy to do so.

"I think I have something that might help spark your creativity," Louis mused.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Louis's tongue darted out to moisten his dry lips. His cerulean eyes stared into Harry's with intensity, making him fidget on his stool.

"Are you busy this evening?" he pondered, ignoring his question.

Harry swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. "No."

Louis paused. "Come here at three o'clock, after my last lecture."

"Here, as in the university?"

"Yes."

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head in confusion. "Why?"

"It's a surprise," Louis said simply, standing up from the stool. Its metal legs dragged across the tiles.

"You really think you can help me?" Harry pressed, still hesitant.

"Of course. I'm an expert in my field, Harry. Don't doubt me."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, okay. I'll be here at three o'clock sharp."

Louis smiled as he reminded, "Not a minute later."

°°°

"Do I look okay?" Harry asked as he stepped into Gemma's bedroom. He pinched the hem of his loose blouse and tugged down once, smoothing out all the creases. It was sheer, and he could see his nipples peeking through the shirt, not that he cared. He wore dark skinny jeans that scrunched around his ankles, covering the tops of his glittery boots.

Gemma threw a glance over her shoulder. She was sat her desk, typing away at her laptop. She worked for a publishing company and, even after a long day at the office, she often had to finish her work from home.

Her bedroom was small, but then again, their entire flat was relatively tiny. Her bed lay in the center with a pink quilt, a stack of decorative pillows near the headboard. A fluffy, purple rug sat near the door under Harry's feet. The fluffy material squished beneath him. Empty cans of energy drinks cluttered on Gemma's desk, interlaced with random pens and scraps of paper.

She smirked as she eyed her brother up and down. "Ohh, who are you trying to impress?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Harry snorted. "Nobody, Gems. I just enjoy looking nice. Is that a crime?"

Gemma shook her head. "No. You look lovely, Harry."

"Thanks," he said cheerfully, dimples forming in his blushed cheeks.

"Seriously, though. I want to meet this boy eventually. I need to approve of him, understand?" she said, waving her pencil threateningly.

"Which boy?"

"Don't play dumb with me, H. The one you've been hanging out with lately."

Harry bit his lip. "Oh."

"Can you at least tell me his name?" Gemma begged.

Harry wanted to. He wanted to be honest with her, tell her the truth, say that he's been lusting over his professor for months now, but. He couldn't. Even if Gemma didn't recognize Mr. Tomlinson's first name, he couldn't risk it.

Harry pretended to zip his lips. Gemma sighed.

"Fine, whatever. Go on your dumb platonic date," she said, waving her hand contemptuously.

Harry snickered. "Thank you for your blessing," he joked, rolling his eyes. "I'll be back soon."

"Don't do anything stupid," Gemma warned.

"No promises," Harry chuckled, not knowing what the future would have in store.

°°°

Emptiness filled the university's halls. Harry's footsteps echoed through the bricked walls, his heels clicking along the way. He left a trail of melted snow behind him, water glistening on the shiny tiles. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath of courage.

His green eyes flickered from door-to-door, eyeing the numbered plaques. 126, 127, and alas, 128. Louis's name sat above the digit, written in bold, capital letters: Mr. Tomlinson. The door was shut, but the light was still switched on. A soft glow emanated from the crack under the door. Harry swallowed his nerves and knocked twice.

He heard shuffling from inside, and then the door swung open. Louis stood there, more disheveled than he had been in the morning. His feathery hair flew in various directions, sticking to his temples and forehead. He wore a white Adidas shirt with a low scoop neck that showed off his collarbones. His denim jeans fit perfectly around his thick thighs and sculpted calves, almost like they were painted on. He didn't fit the uptight professor stereotype. Harry liked it that way.

"Glad you could make it," Louis said as Harry walked inside. Louis shut the door behind him.

"Didn't have anything better to do on a Thursday night," he pointed out.

Louis laughed, crinkles forming next to his eyes. "Whatever, curly."

Curly, Harry thought. That was new.

Louis's classroom seemed different like this: empty, private, and calm, just the two of them. He didn't hear any background chatter from other students— just Louis's calming voice.

"Anyway," Louis began, patting an empty table. "Let's break this artist's block of yours, yeah?"

Small bottles of paint dispersed across the desk as well as a small stack of paper. The paint ranged from primary colours to bright neons. However, he hadn't brought any brushes. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"No paintbrushes?"

Louis shook his head. He sat on the stool and tapped the one next to his, gesturing for Harry to sit down. He did, cautiously, still filled with uncertainty.

"We're fingerpainting," Louis explained with a sly smile.

Harry's eyes widened. "Fingerpainting?" he scoffed. "I haven't done that since I was, like, six years old."

"C'mon, just hear me out," Louis huffed. "I believe your problem with the story-painting project is that you're over-thinking it. You're giving too much thought to technicalities and irrelevant details. So, I wanted to strip it down— break painting down to its finest elements."

Harry paused, eyeing the small jars of paint. "You really think this will work?" he asked with a raised brow.

"There's only one way to find out," Louis shrugged, unscrewing the yellow container.

He grabbed a piece of paper and handed one to Harry as well, who thanked him with a soft smile. Louis dipped his thumb in the mustard-colored paint and pressed his thumb to the white sheet, creating an oval of bright yellow. He then used his pinky fingers to create thin lines around it, forming the shape of a sun with rays.

Harry giggled childishly. "A sunshine?"

Louis nodded. "Yeah. Why not? It's simplistic," he reasoned. He stole a glance at Harry's blank paper. "Why aren't you painting, you weirdo?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't know what to paint."

Louis snorted and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Styles. It's easy. This is kindergarten-level shit."

To prove his point, he grabbed Harry's hand and dipped his finger in the paint, then dotted it across the paper, creating two yellow ovals. Harry froze as Louis's smaller hand covered his own. Louis's tan skin contrasted perfectly against Harry's paleness. His palm was dry and rough, scratching against the back of Harry's hand. They stared at each other for one, two, three full seconds before Louis pulled away, turning his face to hide his blush.

"Right," Louis coughed awkwardly and, God, he just made this situation even worse.

"Right," Harry mocked.

The green-eyed boy reached for the purple paint. He dipped his fingers inside, save his thumb, and smeared them messily across the paper. Four streaks of violet stained the corner, all messy and child-like.

Louis uncapped the jar of pink and covered his index and middle fingers, then pressed them firmly to his paper, bringing them together in a misshapen heart. Harry saw it out of the corner of his eye. He took a few deep breaths to calm down. Why was he getting so worked-up over a simple hand touch and a painted heart?

So Harry snatched up the green jar and decided to make a caterpillar, using the yellow marks as antennas. He didn't know if caterpillars really had antennas, but fuck it. It was all part of the creative process. Louis cooed quietly as he watched Harry create linear polka dots with his large thumb. His tongue caught between his lips in deep concentration.

"So," Harry drawled, trying to fill the silence between them. "Heard anything from Zayn lately?"

Louis shook his head. "No. I reckon I should visit him soon, though. Maybe after the semester's over, when I have some freetime."

Harry nodded slowly. "Oh. Which prison?"

Louis bit his lip. "Um, the one downtown. Eastside Jail, I think it's called."

Harry paused. "Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just— my dad's there, too, at that same prison. He's been there for the past thirteen years."

Louis frowned. He began dotting his paper with random, multi-colored circles.

"Do you visit your dad often?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "No. I haven't seen him since he was locked up."

"Really?"

"Really," Harry confirmed, voice lowering to a near whisper. "He gets to leave on parole in two years, though, if he stays on good behavior or whatever."

"Parole," Louis spat with a hint of annoyance. "People like that don't deserve second chances."

Harry just shrugged. "I'll probably get a restraining order against him."

Louis nodded in agreement. "Good idea."

Like Gemma, Harry felt a sense of protectiveness from Louis. He genuinely cared about Harry's well-being, which was rare for him. Most brushed him off as a mute freak, but not Mr. Tomlinson. He was different— a good kind of different.

"What about you? Do you want to see Zayn when he gets out?" Harry asked, wanting to change the subject. He didn't particularly like the attention on himself, hence his extreme shyness.

"I don't know," Louis admitted with a frown.

"So you're not together anymore?"

"No," Louis said dryly. "I can't wait  _years_  to see him again. I'm too needy." He chuckled. "And besides, Zayn lied to me, and— and I don't know if I can trust him again."

Harry hummed softly. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Louis sighed and swiped his pinky finger through the dark blue paint. He swiveled it back and forth across his paper, creating a zigzag of color. He enjoyed abstractism— leaving an image up for interpretation. Harry, on the other hand, liked giving art a definition.

"I really don't want this semester to end," Harry said abruptly, speckling his caterpillar with orange paint.

Louis nodded in agreement. "Yeah, me neither."

"Do you, um, still want to see each other afterwards?" Harry wondered, awkwardly playing with his bracelets. He accidentally splotched his wrist with paint, not that he cared.

Louis's head snapped up, giving Harry a look of confusion. "Of course, Styles," he scoffed. "We're mates, yeah?"

"Yeah, mates," Harry mumbled.

Louis nibbled on the inside of his cheek. The air between them was tense. He had so much to say, but he couldn't put them in verbal sentences, no matter how hard he tried.

"And you'll still be here at uni, right? I'll see you around," Louis assured.

"Yeah, definitely," Harry muttered.

His voice was so quiet that Louis barely caught it over the leaky sink dripping in the background. The dribble seemed to match his heartbeat—  _thud, thud, thud_. He felt like he could barely breathe. Something about Harry's presence set him off balance.

"And if you need someone for moral support when you visit Zayn, I'd be more than happy to come with," Harry offered shyly. " 's been thirteen years since I've seen my dad. I'll face my demons if you're willing to face yours."

Louis couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, that— that sounds lovely, Harry. Thanks."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I've been putting it off for a while now— seeing my dad, that is. Gem visits him once per month, but I suppose I haven't forgiven him yet, probably never will."

"That's understandable."

"I'm just afraid that he'll blame me for everything," Harry sighed, dipping his fingers in the black paint. It concealed the underlying layers of blue and yellow and purple with darkness.

Louis's heart swelled. "It's not your fault—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, slightly agitated. "But my father is a complicated man. You know he tried to put me in juvenile detention at age six? He accused me of murdering my mother, as if I had some sort of conscious understanding about how guns worked."

Louis ached. He ached all over, emotionally. He wished Harry would've had a normal childhood, with loving parents, because he deserved that. He deserved all the love and affection the world had to offer.

The professor didn't know what to say, so he settled for, "I'm sorry."

Harry just frowned. " 's okay. I think seeing my dad will be a good thing, bring my life some closure, y'know?"

"Closure," Louis echoed. That's what he needed with Zayn, too.

Harry covered the cheerful caterpillar in smudges of gloomy black. His finger ghosted over the bright colors, drowning them with darkness. Louis eyed Harry's paper with curiosity.

"For the record, your father missed out on raising a lovely son," Louis praised. He didn't like the silence.

Harry smiled in return. "Well, Zayn missed out on having a lovely husband."

Louis flushed. This was supposed to be an innocent session of finger-painting, not flirting. For fuck's sake.

"Thanks," Louis grumbled.

He finished his painting, adding a few dots of red to the top corner. It was a mess, but it was an artistic mess. It was  _his_ mess.

"I think this helped," Harry confessed and pushed the black paint aside.

"Really?" Louis asked, excitement sparkling in his azure eyes.

"Yeah. It was, like, breaking art down to its basic elements. I didn't have to think about all the methods and different approaches. It was just  _painting_."

Louis grinned. "Good. I think you're gonna do great on this final project."

Harry dimpled. "I hope you're right."

"I'm a professor. I'm always right."

Harry giggled. He stood up and walked to the sink. He struggled to roll up his sleeves with his left hand, but succeeded eventually. He switched on the faucet with the heel of his hand and rubbed his palms together under the stream of cold water. He watched the paint trickle down the drain, mixing together in a swirl of colors.

Meanwhile, Louis shoved the jars of paint in the nearby cabinet. When Harry finished washing his hands, he followed suit. They dried them off with a dirty rag that lay on the paint-splattered counter.

"I suppose I should head home," Harry said, gesturing to the door with his thumb.

"Yeah, of course," Louis breathed. He snatched Harry's paper from the desk. "Take this."

Harry stared at the messy painting. "It's rubbish, Mr. Tomlinson."

"But it's  _your_ rubbish," Louis defended. "And I want you to keep it for inspirational purposes."

Harry caved in, letting Louis place the finger-painting in his waiting hands. "Maybe I'll put it on my fridge," he joked.

The corners of Louis's lips quirked up in a small smile. "Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?" he said, stepping towards the door.

"Yeah. Have a nice night, Harry."

Harry took one stride down the hall, stopped, then spun around on his heel. Before Louis could react, he felt Harry's arms wrap around his waist. It caught him off guard. Harry nestled his face in Louis's shoulder, breathing out a soft, "Thanks."

Louis froze. His arms found their way around Harry's shoulders, though, and he pulled him even closer. His body felt warm against his own, their chests flushed together. His hair tickled his nose, and it smelled fruity, like strawberries.

"Sorry," Harry exhaled, pulling away. His cheeks were a bright shade of pink, but then again, so were Louis's. "That was weird, wasn't it?"

"No, no, it's okay," Louis rushed, touching Harry's arm to prove his point. "Hugs are okay."

But when Harry departed, Louis was left craving  _more_.

°°°

Friday was relatively boring. The university had been nipping at Louis's heels to include more history in the curriculum, so he showed the class a documentary on Frida Kahlo. Most of his students fell asleep or played on their phones, with the exception of Harry and a few others.

Whilst the film played on the screen, Louis watched Harry carefully, squinting through the darkness. The soft glow of the projector tinted his skin with a blueish hue. His hair was pinned up in a messy bun. He wore a green knitted jumper that matched his ivory eyes perfectly. The oversized sleeves were rolled up at the ends, stopping near his elbows. His black skinny jeans curved around his thighs and bum, riding low on his hips. His heeled boots were worn-out and covered with scratches in the fake leather. Half a dozen bracelets wrapped around his wrists.

Louis forced himself to look away. He didn't want to get caught drooling over one of his students. So instead, he distracted himself by grading essays on prehistoric artwork, making corrections and comments with his red pen.

He may or may not have accidentally drifted off in a daydream, writing 'Harry' in pretty, cursive writing at the top of another student's essay. When he snapped out of it, he swore under his breath and scribbled it out.

He blamed his subconscious.

°°°

The weekend passed quickly.

With the radio blasting at full volume, Louis scurried around his house, throwing all of Zayn's belongings in cardboard boxes. He didn't want any more reminders. He wanted to forget all about him. Every time he saw something of Zayn's, he felt like crying, and he didn't want to be a victim of his own home anymore. He needed to take charge.

Louis plucked Zayn's artworks off the wall and stuffed them in the box. Picture frames followed. In a matter of hours, his home became a shell of its former self, but it was okay, because it was  _his_ home now. He didn't share it with anyone.

If he wanted to move on, he needed to stop mulling over the past.

So Louis stood in the bathroom with a garbage bag, tossing out all of Zayn's beauty products, and he had  _a lot_. Four bottles of shampoo and conditioner, two containers of body wash, three shaving creams, five colognes, and two and a half sticks of deodorant, to be exact. His bathroom countertop seemed to grow in size. He used to struggle to find his own products every morning, but now it was a barren desert.  He took off his engagement ring, too.  A red band of swollen skin puffed around his finger.

And when he fell asleep at night, he no longer felt half-empty. He felt free.

°°°

Monday was abnormally cold. Louis woke up to see a blanket of white outside his window. The snow fell heavily, filling the roads with slushy ice. The house felt colder, so he slipped on a pair of fuzzy socks and wrapped himself in a small throw blanket. He trudged across the house and found the thermostat in the hallway. He cranked up the heat.

Whilst his morning tea simmered on the hob, Louis checked his mobile phone. Still plagued with sleep, he messed up his number combination. It took three tries to type in the simplest four-digit code in existence: 1-2-3-4. Once unlocked, he mindlessly scrolled through the texts from his mum and childhood friend, Stan.

Then he noticed the text from Harry, sent just a few minutes prior. He bit his lip as he read over the screen.

_"I just thought of a joke. why did the police arrest my drawing?? cause it was up to some sketchy behavior!!"_

He even added the winking emoji. A single, one-syllable laugh escaped Louis's lips. He adored this side of Harry's personality— dorky, lovable, giggly. Even if his puns were awful, they never failed to make him laugh.

Louis smiled as he typed back,  _"very punny, styles."_

°°°

An hour later, Louis walked into his disorganized, empty classroom carrying a coffee cup from the university cafe. The warmth seeped through the cup, heating up his cold palms. He set it on his desk next to his laptop. Scattered papers and uncapped pens littered his desk. He sat in his swivel chair. He desperately needed to buy a new one. The cushion's foam had deflated over time, providing no comfort under his bum.

He sighed as he looked around at the crooked tables and dirt-covered floors. Pencil marks, clay dust, and paint splatters stained the tables. Suddenly, reality hit. He only had one week left of the semester. One week to assign grades and write up exams for his other classes. One week to spend lots of time with Harry.

He rubbed his temples with frustration. He felt stress surge through his veins, making his head buzz anxiously. Curse his habit of procrastination.

Almost on cue, he heard someone step inside. His head snapped up.

Harry strolled in with a look of concern. Louis inhaled a sharp breath as his eyes scanned him from head to toe. He wore a mesh, long-sleeved shirt despite the freezing temperatures. Little holes filled the black fabric, exposing his ivory skin. He wore a tanktop underneath, but Louis couldn't stop staring at his arms, in awe of the obscenity. Throughout the semester, Harry had made many bold fashion choices. This was one of the greatest.

"You alright? Seem stressed," Harry noted. His hair was curlier than usual. It fell just below his shoulders, all messy and wild, framing his face with a waterfall of brown.

Louis gulped. "Yeah, 'm fine," he insisted, but his voice quivered.

Harry nodded slowly, still unconvinced. He leaned against the wall and bit a hangnail on his thumb. Louis noticed the rings on his slender fingers.

"If you need help with anything, let me know," Harry said with a gentle smile. His dimples melted Louis's heart. "You've helped me a lot. I don't mind returning the favor."

Louis sighed quietly. He looked across the messy, dirty classroom. He wrinkled his nose with disgust.

"Are you any good at cleaning, Styles?" Louis inquired, arching an eyebrow.

Harry paused. "Yes," he said, raising his voice like a question.

"Well, I could use some help tidying up the classroom after hours."

Harry lit up with excitement. Louis laughed. He'd never seen someone get so adrenalized over cleaning.

"I'll take that as a yes?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah, I'd love to."

"Great," Louis breathed. He shuffled some papers on his desk, sealed them together with a staple. "Be here around four this afternoon, yeah?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I will."

Right then, a group of other students walked in. Harry stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Class would start in less than three minutes. With one last dimpled smile, Harry proceeded to his desk in the back of the room. His rucksack bounced slightly in time with his steps, filled with textbooks and sketchbooks.

Louis returned his attention to his laptop. He ducked his head behind the screen, trying to hide his blush.

When all the students arrived, filling their seats, Louis walked in front of the class and cleared his throat. The chatter faded away and all eyes fell on Louis. He noticed Harry in the back, doodling in one of his notebooks. His large hand gripped his pen as he sketched randomly.

"So, this is your last Monday in my class," Louis announced, pretending to wipe away an invisible tear.  

A few students chuckled while others cheered. Two girls in the back high-fived. Harry just giggled into the sleeves of his mesh shirt.

"Settle down. No need to get so upset," the professor scoffed with sarcasm. "You still have one last project due this Friday. I'm giving you this class period to work on them. If you need any help, feel free to ask questions."

They all began working at once. Louis felt bittersweet in regards to the semester ending. He was excited to have some relaxation time, time to heal his broken heart, but he would miss having Harry as a student. He was such a talented hardworker.

A dark-skinned boy in the front row, Damon, waved his hand in front of the professor's glazed face. Louis snapped out of his trance. He didn't even realize that he'd been staring at Harry, totally zoned out from his surroundings. He blinked a few times at the boy.

"Sorry," Louis apologized. "Do you have a question?"

"Can you help me with the sunset?" Damon asked, pointing to his canvas with the tip of his brush. He was using watercolor to paint a sunset in the background, a pretty mixture of oranges and pinks. The two colors didn't really blend together, though— just barely touching.

"Yeah," Louis said, taking a seat next to him. He grabbed the brush out of Damon's hand and swished it through the cup of dirty water. "You just have to blend them together, like this, to make it natural. That way you have a mid-way color to make them mix, understand?"

To prove his point, he flicked the paintbrush across the canvas, smudging the paints together in a beautiful shade of coral. Damon nodded and took the brush, flicking it back and forth. They blended perfectly across the horizon.

"There ya' go," Louis grinned. "Looks great so far. Can't wait to see the final result."

"Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson."

He nodded in response and stood up, brushing his thighs to flatten the creases in his jeans. He scanned the classroom in search of any raised hands, but found none. A constant hum of chitchatting filled the room. Naturally, Louis's eyes were drawn to Harry, like a magnetic force beyond his control.

His long hair fell in front of his face, creating a curtain in front of his notebook. He didn't hear Louis approaching. The rubber soles of his black Vans shoes produced soft steps.

Louis tapped his shoulder as he swung his leg around the spare stool, plopping down on the metal seat. Harry jumped slightly, his hand falling over his chest. His bubblegum lips formed into a shocked 'o' shape.

"Nearly gave me a heart attack," Harry complained, swatting Louis's shoulder.

Louis laughed cutely, so little creases formed next to his eyes. "Sorry."

Harry frowned and covered his notebook with his arm. Louis looked curiously, brow arched.

"Whatcha' got there?" he teased, poking Harry's bicep. His shirt struggled to fit around his large muscle. The net-like fabric stretched, creating even larger holes. Louis swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the dirty thoughts burning in the back of his brain.

Harry rolled his eyes. " 's a surprise."

"Ooh, is it a rough draft of your painting?" Louis urged.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You'll just have to wait 'till Friday," Harry teased.

Louis groaned in annoyance. "Not fair. You're torturing me with your talent."

Harry snickered. "Yeah, whatever."

Louis sighed. "Fine. I guess I'll leave you to work in private," he said, standing up from the stool. He stretched his stiff back muscles and twisted his torso a bit.

"I'll see you later, right?" Louis wondered.

Harry nodded. "Four o'clock sharp."

"Perfect," Louis grinned. "See you then."

Louis spent the rest of the class period at his desk, trying to type e-mails on his laptop. Unfortunately, he found himself distracted by Harry's goddamn mesh shirt.

°°°

At 3:58 PM, there was a knock at Louis's classroom door. His heart leapt in his chest. A few minutes prior, he'd received a text from Harry reading, " _on my way!!_ " with a smiley face emoji. He felt nervous.  As he walked towards the door, he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

Louis swung open the door, revealing Harry in the hallway, his hands tucked in his pockets. He smiled, dimples and all. He looked  _way_ too happy for this task. Bless his heart.

" 'ello," Harry chimed.

"Hey, you're early," Louis joked, stepping aside.

Harry laughed. "Sorry."

He walked in and closed the door behind them. It clicked shut, the sound making the professor slightly nervous. He wondered if he was pushing the boundaries too far. But, regardless, it was too late for regrets.

"Thank you for volunteering," Louis murmured, turning towards the chalk board. He grabbed the dusty eraser and swiped it across the green surface, wiping off the word "surrealism." Harry stared at Louis's messy handwriting, how his r's sort of resembled v's. Shadows of white letters faded into the chalkboard.

"No problem," Harry answered a few seconds later, his voice delayed. He stood there awkwardly. He didn't know what to do with himself.

Louis set down the eraser, sliding it into the metal tray at the bottom of the board. "Now," he sighed, rubbing his hands together. The chalk dust stuck between them. "I suppose we should start with the desks. They need to be straightened in proper rows, but I can't lift them on my own."

Harry smirked. "You're weak."

Louis scoffed. "Excuse you. They're heavy tables."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"C'mon," Louis said, nudging his shoulder towards the front row of tables. "Grab that end, okay? Help me lift."

Harry stood on the opposite side, fingers curling under the table's edge. He tried to ignore the sticky wads of gum underneath. On the count of three, they lifted up and straightened the desk, making it line up with the others. Louis let out a shaky breath when he saw Harry's biceps flex.  _Fuck_.

"Looks good," Harry said, patting the table.

Louis licked his lips and stared at Harry's arms, how his muscles bulged under the mesh. His mouth felt dry.

"Yeah, looks great," he said a little breathlessly.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then closed again, unable to put his thoughts into a coherent sentence. His face tinted pink.

"Right, anyway," Louis said, coughing. "Help me move this one?"

They spent the next five minutes or so moving tables around. They worked in silence. They shared a few intense stares, where they caught each other's gaze, kept it for a few solid seconds. Harry was red as a tomato when they finished, whether it be from lifting the desks or embarrassment.

Probably the latter.

"What next? I could clean the windows," Harry offered.

Louis shook his head. "Actually, I'd like to clean out the sink. It's full of paintbrushes."

Harry followed Louis to the sink, next to tall cabinets and overhead cupboards, all stuffed with art supplies. That familiar dripping sound caught Harry's attention. The faucet leaked into the metal basin, trickling onto a pile of paint-covered brushes. Streaks of color stained the inside of the sink.

"You're wasting water, y'know," Harry pointed out.

Louis shrugged. "There's nothin' I can do about it. The university won't pay for a plumber."

Harry snickered. "Y'know, my uncle was a plumber," he mused. "I think I might know how to fix it. You've got a wrench?"

Louis raised an eyebrow hesitantly. "You  _really_ think you can fix it?"

"Don't doubt me."

"Not doubting. Just questioning," Louis snickered.

Regardless, the professor opened a nearby drawer and rummaged through a sea of tools, ranging from screwdrivers to hammers. The metal tools clinked against one another as he sifted through them, eyes searching for a wrench. A few years prior, he'd helped a student create a huge sculpture of copper, hence the tools, and he kept them ever since.

"Here," Louis said and gave Harry the wrench. It seat heavily in his hand.

Harry hummed and knelt next to the sink, opening the cabinet doors underneath. He examined the tangled mess of pipes. Louis watched tortuously as Harry leaned forward, his shirt sliding up his back, his trousers drooping downward. He heard a tightening noise, followed by a loud 'click.'

"There," Harry huffed, sliding out from under the sink. As Harry stood up, his knees cracked. Miraculously, the dripping stopped.

"Oh my god," Louis gasped. "No more leak!"

"It was a simple fix, really."

"Thank you so much," Louis rambled, the biggest smile forming on his lips. "That leaky faucet has been driving me  _insane_ for the past six months."

Harry just shrugged, as if to say it wasn't a big deal. "Let's clean up these brushes now, yeah?" he suggested. There were at least two dozen in the sink now, a diversity of handle colors and bristle lengths.

"Yeah, okay."

Louis reached into the sink. He groaned in annoyance and gathered the paint-covered brushes in his hand. He turned quickly towards the faucet, and the brushes flicked through the air, splattering paint across the room. He swore under his breath.

"Shit," he huffed when he saw the paint splashed all over Harry's clothes and upper body.

He didn't seem angry, though— just giggled, his purple-speckled nose wrinkling. He had red all over his forehead, purple on his nose, and yellow on his chin and mouth. Louis couldn't help but laugh back. Harry's laughter was contagious.

"I'm sorry," Louis rushed, dropping the brushes in the sink. They clattered against the metal.

Harry wiped off his cheek with the back of his hand. " 's alright," he chuckled.

"Here, let me," Louis insisted.

The professor used his thumb to brush off the yellow smudge on Harry's jawline, then moved up to his bottom lip. He freezed. Harry's heartbeat quickened as Louis lifted his head, their eyes meeting. The touch was so innocent, yet so intimate, and Harry felt Louis's breath against his neck.

His thumb stroked across his lip some more, collecting the yellow paint on the pad of his finger. Harry quivered. He gulped, swallowing the urge to crack a joke. This didn't seem like a laughing matter.

"Louis," Harry whispered.

Louis's hands moved to cup his jaw, streaking the paint across his porcelain cheeks. His palms felt cold yet comforting. Louis inched forward until the tips of their noses touched, and the little voice in Harry's head told him to walk away, but his feet stayed frozen to the ground.

"Louis," Harry repeated, weaker this time.

Louis hushed him by pressing their lips together, and Harry inhaled sharply out of surprise, but couldn't bring himself to stop. Louis's thin lips felt soft and sweet, fitting against his perfectly. His scruff tickled against Harry's smooth skin. His tongue nudged against the barrier of Harry's lips, and he happily complied, parting them.

Months of pent-up tension shattered between them.

In the midst of the urgent kiss, Louis pushed Harry up against the wall, so his back leaned on the bricks. His arms snaked around to the small of Louis's back whilst Louis continued to caress his cheeks, holding his face closer. Louis nibbled on Harry's bottom lip, eliciting a quiet whimper from the younger boy.

"Lou," Harry croaked as he squeezed his hips.

Mr. Tomlinson's hands pushed up the hem of Harry's mesh shirt, his fingertips dancing across his love handles. Louis smiled into the kiss and felt the swell of his tummy.

Harry craned his neck and Louis peppered kisses down his jawline, stopping near his collarbone. He nibbled on the skin and started sucking, and Harry whined deep in his throat, throwing his head back against the wall. Louis continued to suck a love bite there, fueled by the desire to let everyone know Harry was taken. His teeth grazed into his neck. Harry's eyes fluttered with pleasure.

"Please do something," Harry begged, all pliant and weak in Louis's arms.

Louis glanced down, surprised to see a bulge in Harry's tight skinny jeans. The air left his lungs.

"Oh.  Um."

Of all the words in the English dictionary, Louis chose 'oh.' Harry became flushed with embarrassment. He cursed his body for getting so worked up over  _kissing_. He stuttered to apologize, but nothing came out. He looked like a fish out of water, gasping for words to say.

Wordlessly, Harry pushed on Louis's chest and shoved him away. He ran out of the classroom, all disheveled and wrecked and broken-hearted.

"Harry, wait!" Louis called out, but it was too late.

He was already gone.

°°°

Louis couldn't sleep that night. He texted Harry multiple times but never received a reply. First, he tried, " _are you okay?? I'm sorry about what happened. can we talk?_ "

When Harry didn't respond in a matter of minutes, Louis added, " _please?_ "

He felt guilty and gross and so damn angry at himself. He fucked up bigtime. He shouldn't have kissed Harry like that. He got carried away. He was Harry's professor, for crying out loud, and he had the responsibility to treat Harry with professionalism and respect. But he let his stupid feelings control his actions.

He was utterly ashamed of himself for letting things get this far. He wished he could go back and time and undo it all.

So Louis cried himself to sleep, a feeling of self-loathing settling in his gut.

Not surprisingly, Harry didn't go to class the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Louis tried  _everything_. He texted, he called, he even got a hold of Harry's university e-mail from his student files. He considered visiting his flat, but didn't want to risk running into Gemma.

He tried to work through his classes normally, but Harry was constantly on his mind, breaking up his thoughts, consuming them. He couldn't escape him. His heart ached every time he thought of those pretty green eyes and pink lips and curly hair.

°°°

On Friday, the final day, Harry skipped class again. Louis cursed his stupid brain for falling for his student, of all people. He hated not being able to help Harry simply because  _he_ was the one who hurt him. Harry already had so much pain in his life.

Now, a pile of final projects lay on Louis's desk. The canvases stacked high, ranging in paint and texture and size. He dismissed his class, telling them to have a nice break, that he enjoyed having them as students. But everyone could hear the distress in his voice, the bags under his eyes, the sadness in his heart.

At the end of the day, Louis neatly placed the canvas projects in a large crate. He gripped the handles and carried them out in the hall. Balancing the crate against his hip, Louis turned off the light and locked his classroom door. The keys shook nervously in his hand. He wouldn't see this place until the spring semester begun in a few months.

The heaviness in his arms made him waddle slightly. The professor's knuckles turned white as he made his way through the university hallways.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis zipped around, surprised to see Mr. Eldridge. He wore a tight, blue suit and a black tie. A thin layer of perspiration dotted his reddened forehead, despite the cold weather outside. He pointed a thick finger at the crate in Louis's hands.

"Need any help with that?" his boss asked.

Holding onto his dignity, Louis shook his head. "I'm okay, thanks."

"Alright. You take care, Mr. Tomlinson. Have a nice break," he grinned. "And make sure you grade those assignments by next week. We need final marks by then." He gestured to the canvases in Louis's arms.

"I will. Have a nice Christmas, Mr. Eldridge."

The old man chuckled, his raspy laughter sounding similar to Santa. "You too."

Louis walked out the back doors of the university. He nudged open the door with his toe. The brisk, winter wind blew against his face. He ducked behind the stack of canvases as a makeshift shield. As he shuffled towards his car, he left footprints behind in the snow.

With a loud exhale of relief, Louis set the crate on his car's bonnet. His shivering hands unlocked the door. He tossed the stack of canvases in the passenger's seat, not caring if they toppled over.

Before he climbed in the driver's side, however, something caught his attention. There was something taped to his windshield— a thin, white rectangle of canvas paper. He froze in his tracks. His nimble fingers plucked it off, the tape peeling off with ease.

Wanting to escape the bitter cold, Louis slid in his car, the paper shaking in his hands.  The door slammed shut with the wind.

Louis flipped over the paper. His heart skipped a beat, or maybe it stopped entirely. Louis wasn't entirely sure.

It was a painting.  _Harry's_ painting. He must've left it on Louis's car, too afraid to hand it in personally.  

It was absolutely breathtaking, not that Louis expected anything less. The acrylic paint depicted a silver watering can hanging over a barren garden, held by Harry's hand, judging by the bracelets around the pale wrist. Dark dirt filled the garden, overgrown with dead, wilting flowers. A pretty sky of blue hung in the horizon. A sun blazed in the distance, outlined in a halo of white shine. Despite the nourishment of water and sunlight, nothing seemed to grow.

Among the garden of death, however, was a single rose growing in the middle. It was beautiful, flourishing, its petals bright red. Each brushstroke looked neat and clean. Louis knew that roses symbolized promise, hope, and new beginnings. At the bottom, Harry signed his name and left a little note in ink pen.

_Thank you for being my rose. x H_

Louis swore under his breath. He needed to see Harry, craved his touch, longed to hear his voice. A single tear dripped from his blue eyes and cascaded onto the painting, accidentally smudging the blue sky. He sniffled and set it aside.

He tapped his forehead against the steering wheel, letting out a groan of frustration. "Fuck," he muttered to himself. He couldn't just let this go. What they had was special, something neither of them could explain.

He set Harry's painting on the console. He frantically started the engine, his hands trembling. He sped out of the lot and headed towards Harry's flat. His tires slid across the ice, driving well over the limit. His head was buzzing.

He needed to make everything okay again.

Eventually, Louis stopped in front of Harry and Gemma's complex. He looked up at his balcony, how the dead flowers toppled over in the wind. He swallowed his nerves. This wasn't even a choice anymore; he  _needed_ to do this. He couldn't go on without fixing things with Harry.

Louis slid out of his car, snatching up Harry's painting. He nearly slipped on the ice, but he regained his balance. He shuffled over to the complex's front doors. Once inside, he felt a rush of warm air. He let out a sigh of relief. He found the stairs and ran up to the third level. His knees and heart ached at the same time.

The professor took a few deep breaths before knocking.

Thankfully, Gemma didn't answer the door. It was Harry.

He looked dreadful. He had dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked paler, his cheeks puffy from crying. His lips were chapped. He took a breath of surprise when he saw Louis standing in the hall.  He wore simple pajama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt, his hair pulled back in a bun, despite it being nearly five o'clock in the evening.

He almost slammed the door in his face, but Louis stopped it with his foot.

"Wait," Louis begged. Harry blinked silently. "Just stop, please. Hear me out."

Harry froze. He nodded wordlessly, urging him to continue.

"I got your painting, okay?" Louis breathed, fluttering the paper in his hand. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for acting weird when we kissed. I was just surprised, because I like you, a lot, but I didn't think you'd like me, too. And so I panicked."

Harry's bottom lip wobbled. He didn't say anything, though. Just stared at Louis quietly.

"I care about you so much," Louis said, grabbing Harry's hand. Surprisingly, he didn't flinch away. "So much it absolutely terrifies me sometimes."

Harry gulped. He glanced at their interlaced fingers, how they fit perfectly.

"Say something," Louis pleaded, rubbing his thumb on the back of his hand. "Please don't give me the silent treatment again. You can trust me, okay? I'm not some stranger. I'm  _me_ , Louis."

Harry shook his head, as if to say 'I can't.'

"Harry, please," Louis continued. "Please, just give me another chance."

Harry blinked away his tears. "You're my professor," he whispered.

Louis shook his head urgently. "Not anymore. The semester's over, Harry."

Harry sniffled, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. "What about Zayn?"

"I don't want Zayn. I want  _you_ ," Louis assured, squeezing Harry's hand.

Harry slumped his shoulders a bit. His jaw tightened. "What do we do now?" he asked timidly.

"I reckon we start slow," Louis breathed. "Say, a proper first date?"

Harry smiled for what seemed like the first time in centuries. Louis missed that smile.

"A date," Harry said softly. "Sounds great."

Louis let out a sigh of relief and kissed him without a second thought. He cupped Harry's cheeks gently, his thumb brushing over his soft skin, swiping away a few stray tears. Harry's eyes fluttered shut and let his hands fall on Louis's shoulders, clutching onto him for dear life. It felt natural, almost like breathing. Like he couldn't live without it.

When they parted, Harry giggled as Louis kissed the tip of his nose, his smile glowing brightly. And perhaps Harry was Louis's own personal sunshine, shining in his life when he needed it most, when darkness devoured him.

And perhaps Louis was Harry's rose, a sign of hope, a sign of strength. Something beautiful that blossomed from hopelessness.


	8. epilogue: extra credit

_"Saturday, five o'clock. Wear something comfortable."_

Harry stood in front of his full-length mirror, the glass coated with smudges and fingerprints. He fumbled with the tiny buttons of his floral-patterned blouse. He couldn't decide if he wanted to button up to the collar or leave it undone halfway, exposing his perky nipples. He decided with the latter.

He flattened his hands down his thighs to smooth out the wrinkles in his skinny jeans. He turned his waist a bit, happy to see that the dark denim tightened around his small yet plump arse. His jeans scrunched around the tops of his golden boots. The sunlight from his window made them sparkle.

He stared at his reflection for a few more seconds. This was  _really_  happening. He was going on a date with Louis, his twenty-six-year-old art professor. Or rather, former professor. Harry felt like he could barely breathe. Louis had said that he wanted to plan out the entire date by himself, that it would be a surprise.

Frankly, Harry hated surprises, but he appreciated Louis's attempts at being spontaneous.

Thanks to the cold December air, Harry's reddened lips were chapped and swollen. He wet them with his tongue. He looked like a complete mess, with blushing cheeks and bitten lips and pimples dotting his forehead.  _Fuck_.

"You look lovely," Gemma insisted, leaning against his doorframe.

Harry met her eyes through the mirror. "I look like a nervous wreck," he chuckled.

She smiled. " 's normal to have some nerves before a date."

Date, Harry thought.  _Fuck_.

"Still can't believe you're dating someone even older than  _me_ ," Gemma continued, watching as Harry rolled up his cuffs.

Harry blinked silently. He could sense the hesitation in her voice. "You can trust Louis. He's a good guy, Gems," he reassured.

She hummed. "Are you ever gonna tell me where you two met, anyway?"

Harry bit his lip. No, he'd save that conversation for another day.

"Just somewhere," Harry said obscurely. He fiddled with the chain of his cross necklace.

"Somewhere?" Gemma pressed, brow raised.

"Yes."

"Please. You're overwhelming me with details," she teased and rolled her eyes.

Harry huffed. "Listen. Have you got any chapstick? Louis'll be here any minute."

She nodded. "Yeah, 've got some in my room, I think. Be right back."

She left Harry's bedroom for a moment. Meanwhile, Harry toyed with his hair. It was straighter than usual, for some reason— probably because he let it air dry without fluffing it first. He just wanted to look  _perfect_. He knew Louis wouldn't care, because he wasn't superficial like that, but still. He felt sort of inferior to Louis, given their seven year age gap, like he wasn't mature enough to date someone as lovely as Mr. Tomlinson.

And, fuck, Harry really needed to stop with the whole 'mister' thing.

"Didn't have any chapstick," Gemma said, returning to Harry's bedroom. "But I've got lip gloss."

Harry turned around, frowning. "Lip gloss?"

"Yes. Don't give me any of that gender roles bullshit. It'll moisturize your lips, just like chapstick," she promised. She placed the glitter-filled pink tube in Harry's awaiting hand.

Harry's virescent eyes stared at the gloss, uncertainty filling his gaze. "On second thought—"

"Oh, shut up. Don't you want to have soft, pretty lips for Louis?" she teased, popping the cap of the gloss tube. Pink shine coated the white tip of the applicator.

He scrunched his nose. "Who said I was gonna kiss him?"

She scoffed. "Hush. From what you've told me, you'll be all over him."

"You make me sound needy," he pouted. "I'll have you know, I played hard-to-get for  _months_."

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Pucker up, buttercup."

Harry complied, pressing his lips together. Gemma covered them with the gloss. Now they looked smoother, pinker, with little sparkles here and there. Harry licked the corner of his mouth. Okay, it tasted pretty good, too. Like strawberries.

"Beautiful," Gemma grinned, closing the tube again. She screwed the cap shut.

"Thanks," Harry said. He smacked his lips together, satisfied.

Gemma nodded. She noted the blush of pink on Harry's cheeks.

"Do you love Louis?" she asked.

Harry nearly choked on his tongue. "What? No, Gems. Louis and I—we're not even boyfriends. Just dating. Not official yet," he rambled.

She squinted. "But you like him?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I like him a lot. Very much. He makes me happy."

"Do you think you could fall in love with him?" she questioned. "Like, hypothetically."

Harry bit his lip. To be honest, he didn't know. He'd never been  _in love_. He didn't know what it felt like. Sure, he had relationships in the past, but nothing too serious.

"I dunno," Harry sighed. "Louis just got out of a very long relationship. They were engaged, actually. I don't want to rush things with him. He says he's fine, but I think he's still a bit heartbroken."

Her eyes widened "Engaged? Sounds serious."

"Yeah," Harry breathed.

There was a knock at the door. Harry's heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He was genuinely going on a  _real_ date with Louis. The man who greeted Harry on the first day of class, asked for his name, and never judged his shyness. The man who reignited his passion for art. The man who could read his thoughts and feelings without verbalization.

Gemma nudged him along. "Go, Harry. Have fun tonight, okay? You deserve it."

He smiled and gave her a quick hug. Then he walked towards their front door, nervousness sinking into his stomach. He snatched up his coat from the hook on the wall. He placed his hand on the doorknob, inhaled sharply, tried to calm down.

He opened the door.

Louis smiled instantly, little crinkles forming next to his pretty blue eyes. His caramel hair was quiffed up slightly, making his face seem slimmer and sharper. He wore a Marvel jumper with the neckline scooped low, revealing a light patch of chest hair. His dark jeans clung to his thick thighs and sculpted calves. Harry felt the air leave his lungs.

"Hello, Styles," Louis greeted with a grin. He leaned up on his tip-toes to kiss Harry's cheek. Harry was only an inch or two taller, but those damn heeled boots made him tower over the older lad.

"Hi," Harry croaked. "You, um— you look nice."

Louis smirked. "Not so bad yourself."

Harry flushed. "Thanks."

"Are you ready to go?"

Harry nodded. "Yup."

Louis grinned and held out his arm, hooking it with Harry's. He guided him out to his car, which he'd parked on the side of the street. The wind whistled through Harry's long hair as they walked along the pavement. Flurries of snow wisped through the winter air.

Like a proper gentleman, Louis opened the door for Harry. He thanked him with a giggle and slid inside. The air felt warmer in Louis's car, more comfortable, and it smelled like Louis, too. Louis closed his door and walked around to the driver's side, then climbed in.

Louis started the engine with a rumble. "So, you ready for our date?" he asked as he began driving down the ice-covered street. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knowing that the roads were quite slippery.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Still don't know where we're going, though."

Louis turned on his blinker as the car slowed to a stop sign. "It's a surprise."

"Have I ever mentioned how much I  _hate_ surprises?"

"Oh, please. You gave me plenty of surprises throughout the semester with those art projects. 's my turn, now."

Harry laughed quietly. "I suppose you're right."

They fell into a comfortable silence. Some lady talked over the radio, but her voice was muffled through the speakers, barely audible. Harry glanced out the window. A light dusting of snow covered the skeletal trees that lined the streets. It truly looked like a winter wonderland.

"So," Louis drawled. His eyes stared through the windshield. "Have you told your sister about us?"

Harry coughed awkwardly. "Well, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Yeah, like. I told her your first name, that you're twenty-six, but—"

"But not that I was your art professor, yeah?" Louis finished.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Do you think she'd be against us being together if she knew?"

Harry just shrugged. "Maybe."

Louis clenched his jaw. "Okay."

Harry knew that upset him—knowing that Harry's only maternal figure might not approve of their "relationship." But it was the truth. Gemma was  _very_ protective of Harry. She meant well, but sometimes she caused more harm than good.

"Hey," Harry sighed, resting his palm on Louis's leg. Louis's gaze flickered before returning to the road. "Don't be angry, alright? I'll tell Gems eventually, when the time's right. I just don't want her to blow up and rat you out to the university."

Louis's face showed no emotions. "You think she'd do that?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. She's just—she's overbearing sometimes, 's all."

"Overbearing?" the eldest asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, like... a few years ago, I slept with this one guy, Chad, at a party. He said he'd call me, but he never rang. I told Gems, and you know what she did?"

"What?"

"She marched over to Chad's house and egged his car."

Louis snorted. "Serves him right."

"And she won't hesitate to kill you if you hurt me, either."

Louis smiled as he stopped at a red light. "Well, I have no intentions of doing that."

Harry looked smug as he squeezed Louis's thigh. "Good, 'cause I have no intentions of hurting you, too."

The light turned green.

○○○

It was a dome-shaped building with a half-sphere as the roof, covered in white tiles. They passed by a sign that read 'Reed's Planetarium,' painted with constellations and tiny planets. The parking lot was empty, not a single car in sight. For a second, Harry wondered if they were closed. But then again, why would Louis take Harry to a closed planetarium?

"A planetarium?" Harry mused. "I've never been to one before."

Louis smiled as he parked the car in front of the building. "Good. I guess I'm popping your planetarium cherry, then."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Clever."

"C'mon, now."

Harry grabbed his wrist. "Wait. Are they even open?" he asked, glancing around the empty lot. The wind whistled against the window.

Louis bit his lip. "Not technically."

"I'm against breaking and entering, Louis," Harry said, his eyes widening. "I refuse to violate the law, even if it's for some extravagant date."

"We're  _not_ breaking in," Louis snickered. "I have it  _reserved_ , just for the two of us."

Harry couldn't help but smile. It was a really sweet gesture. People didn't go above and beyond for Harry very often. He'd become accustomed to expecting the bare minimum.

"That must've costed a fortune, Louis. Holy shit."

Louis shook his head. "Didn't cost anything, actually. Do you know who runs this planetarium?"

Harry scrunched his forehead with confusion. He glanced up at the sign that hung over the glass doors. "Um, someone named Reed?"

Louis nodded. "Precisely. Reed Evans, otherwise known as  _professor_ Evans. He used to work at the university a few years ago. He taught astronomy. He retired since then to build this place. And, well, we're good mates."

Harry practically became the personification of the heart-eyed emoji. "I can't believe you did that for us. That's so..." He couldn't find the right words. "Just—thank you."

" 's no problem. With the exception of staff, we have it all to ourselves. Figured we couldn't have a proper date with loads of people in the same room."

Harry felt like his heart could burst. "I— thank you, Louis. Really."

Louis grinned at his response. He loved making Harry happy. That boy deserved all the happiness in the world, and Louis wanted to give it all to him.

"Let's go, then."

Louis held Harry's hand as they walked towards the entrance. They fit together nicely— Louis's smaller fingers laced with Harry's larger ones. Harry nearly slipped over the ice, but he just gripped Louis's hand tighter, trying to keep his balance. Louis laughed softly and pulled him along.

"You're like Bambi," Louis snickered.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Bambi?"

"Yes. Always tripping with your long deer limbs."

Harry scoffed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is a compliment," Louis insisted, releasing Harry's hand to open the door. The metal handle felt cold against his palm. "Have you seen Bambi? He's fucking adorable. Just like you."

Harry blushed as they walked inside the planetarium. The door closed behind them. The air felt much warmer inside. Beneath them, planets and stars covered the carpet that filled the main lobby. Harry's eyes locked on the floor, eyeing the carpeted rings of Saturn that lay beneath his boots. It looked suited for children, Harry thought, but he loved it nonetheless.

The front desk was made of wood with the planetarium's logo pasted on the front. A red sign that read 'TICKETS' hung above them. A large computer sat on top of the desk with a massive monitor. Keyboard and mouse clicks filled the otherwise quiet space.

Louis cleared his throat. "Reed?"

The man looked up from his computer. He was old and wore thick-lensed glasses that rested on the tip of his wrinkled nose. His skin was dark and covered with age spots. He gave off this vibe of pure intelligence, like he knew  _everything_ in the entire universe. His eyes lit up as he noticed Louis and Harry's presence.

"Louis! I'm so glad you're here," he said, his voice raspy and dry.

Reed stood up and walked around to give Louis a tight hug. Louis pat his back a few times, smiling into the older man's shoulder. When he pulled back, he had the widest smile on his face. His pearly white dentures were unnaturally straight.

"This must be your date, yes?" Reed assumed, nodding towards Harry.

Louis grinned. "Yes. This is Harry. Harry, this is the one and only Reed Evans."

Harry smiled bashfully and shook the man's hand. He held a strong, iron grip, but it was comforting. Welcoming, even.

"It's nice to meet you, Harry. Louis has told me a _lot_  about you," he chuckled.

Louis rolled his eyes. He tried to hide his embarrassment.

"We miss you at the university, Reed," Louis said to change the subject. "The astronomy department isn't the same without you."

The old man frowned slightly. "Thank you, Louis. I miss the university, too, but I think this is my true calling. People seem to love it here. 's attracted tourists to the town, too."

"It looks beautiful," Louis complimented, eyes flickering around the main lobby. The entire building was shaped sort of like an igloo, with the lobby at the entrance and the planetarium under the dome. Overhead, paper-cut stars dangled from the ceiling with string.

"Thank you, Tomlinson. That means a lot, coming from an artist," Reed laughed softly. His eyes turned to Harry, then back to Louis again. "I suppose you two lovebirds want to start your date, yes?"

Louis smiled and placed his hand on the small of Harry's back. It was such a small movement, but it made Harry's stomach flutter. He felt guided. Protected.

"That would be lovely."

Reed flicked his head towards the black door that read "planetarium entrance" in bold white letters. He walked slowly with a limp in his knee, probably from old age, Harry guessed. Louis's fingernails scratched gently at the skin under Harry's blouse. He knew Louis probably didn't even notice these gestures, that it was just a subconscious act, but it drove Harry mad. The simplest touch sent him into a daze.

Reed held the door open with his foot, his arm sweeping inside the planetarium to welcome them. Rows of folding seats filled the dimly-lit circular room. The makeshift sky was currently white, and as Louis squinted, he could see the outline of the large tiles that covered the ceiling. Tiny blue LCD lights illuminated the path that curved through the maze of seats.

And they had it all to themselves. Harry felt like he was on top of the world. And perhaps he was—floating through the galaxy, so to speak. In a matter of minutes, he'd be soaring through stars and planets.

"You can seat wherever you'd like. The show will begin momentarily."

Louis nodded. "Thank you."

The door clicked shut, and then they were alone. Louis sighed. He gripped Harry's waist tighter to grab his attention.

"Where do you want to sit, Styles?"

Harry just shrugged. "Next to you."

Louis snorted. "Well, obviously."

Harry giggled into his shoulder. He smelled like rich cologne. Louis's stubble scratched against his soft blushing cheeks.

"Here," Louis decided, plopping down in a seat in the center of the planetarium. The cushions were soft and comfortable, covered in an odd fabric that felt like corduroy. Harry reclined in the seat to Louis's left.

His head lolled to the side. Their eyes locked. Even in the minimal lighting, Louis could see the sparkle in Harry's green irises.

"You're pretty," Louis hummed, pinching Harry's chin between his thumb and index.

Harry's lashes fluttered, as if he couldn't get any  _prettier_. "Thanks."

Louis smiled in response. He kissed Harry's nose and let go, instead settling his hand over Harry's. Louis's tan skin contrasted perfectly against Harry's paleness.

"I'm glad we can finally do this," Louis spoke softly. His feet knocked against Harry's playfully. "I've waited so long to take you on a date."

"Oh? How long?"

"Since the first day I met you."

Harry bit his lip. "I didn't even speak."

"Yeah, but I might've had a little crush on you, anyway."

Harry nodded slowly. Louis noticed his Adam's apple bob up and down.

"So you were unfaithful to Zayn?" he murmured. His voice was so quiet and hesitant. Louis barely heard it.

Louis blinked a few times. "No. I mean— I don't think so. At first, my feelings were just platonic, you know? I just thought you were interesting. But then..."

"But then it turned into somethin' else?" Harry finished.

"Yeah," Louis breathed. "Obviously I've always thought you were fit, but I never actually had deep  _feelings_ for you until, well, after the art museum, I think."

"After the photo project?"

"Precisely."

Harry hummed in agreement. "I see."

Louis felt Harry's hand tense underneath his. "You're not mad about Zayn, are you?"

"No. I just—I don't know. I sorta feel guilty for splitting you two up," Harry rambled, biting his lip.

Louis shook his head. "No, Harry. Don't feel guilty, alright? 's not your fault. What happened between Zayn and I was unavoidable. I think we're better off this way."

Harry sighed quietly. "Okay."

"I'm happier with  _you_ ," Louis assured.

The lights switched off abruptly. The room turned pitch black, and above them, the dome turned light blue. They both stared at the ceiling with awe. Puffs of animated clouds rolled above them. It looked so incredibly  _real_.

"We will now ascend into outer space," the deep voice spoke over the speakers. It sounded an awful lot like Reed, Louis noted. Perhaps it was. Louis brushed his thumb over the back of Harry's hand.

And then the screens zipped up, whipping through the electronic atmosphere. A few seconds later, they were in space, floating through the galaxy. Millions of stars covered the dome, some larger and brighter than others.

The voice began to discuss constellations. White lines connected between stars to show Ursa Major and the well-known plough.

"Ursa Major has often been perceived as a bear in countless ancient civilizations," the annotator explained. "This oral tradition can be traced back more than 13,000 years. The seven stars that make up Ursa Major are often viewed as the brightest stars in the night sky."

Harry cuddled closer to Louis, nuzzling into the crook of the professor's neck. His gaze locked on the projected sky as a bear appeared around the constellation. Louis saw the wonder in his eyes. He was breathtaking.

"I think you're the brightest star," Louis teased. He pressed his lips to Harry's temple.

Harry laughed quietly. "Shut up."

Louis just smiled and draped his arm around Harry's shoulder. He could get used to this.

੦੦੦

Two days later, Louis and Harry went on another date. They were practically inseparable. It was disgustingly cute, honestly. Harry had invited Louis to go ice skating. He didn't even know how to skate, to be honest, but perhaps it would be an excuse to hold Louis's hand.

Currently, they sat on a bench on the side of the outdoor ice rink. Harry laced up his white skates which, he discovered, were sharper than he anticipated. Louis watched with fondness as Harry bit his tongue between his teeth, trying to concentrate on making the perfect bow with his dirt-covered laces.

The air felt bitterly cold. People of all ages circled around the oval-shaped sheet of ice, surrounded by a short plexiglass wall. Harry looked beautiful like this, Louis thought. He'd pinned his long hair up in a bun. He wore a knee-length coat and some dark skinny jeans. Fingerless gloves covered his numb hands. A red scarf looped around his neck. The chilly breeze bit at his nose and tinted it pink.

Louis looked equally as beautiful, in Harry's opinion. He wore a green Adidas hoodie and some tight-fitting jeggings. A blue beanie with a yarn pom pom on the top hid his hair. Upon Harry's request, he wore some wool mittens, too. Harry had nagged him about it, claiming that he could easily get frostbite otherwise.

"I'm probably going to fall on my arse," Harry warned.

"You're the one who suggested this in the first place," Louis reminded.

Harry frowned. "I thought it'd be romantic, but now I'm having doubts."

Louis snickered. "Shut up and hold on."

He gripped Louis's forearm as he stood up from the bench. His knees wobbled with unbalance. Louis carefully guided him towards the ice rink. They stepped over the ledge in the opening of the fence.

Harry instantly gripped the side of the wall. "Jesus," he huffed. His breath fogged up the winter air.

Lines of white scratched through the ice as the skaters looped around. Harry gulped. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all.

"C'mon, curly. The toddlers are going faster than you," Louis teased, watching as some young children zipped by.

Harry shot him a glare as he struggled to find his balance. His blades wobbled over the ice.

" 'm gonna fall and break my neck," Harry said stubbornly, his fingers paleing as he grasped the wall tighter.

Louis rolled his eyes. "C'mon. I'll help you." He held out his hand.

Harry pouted. "Promise I won't fall?"

"Of course."

Harry grasped his hand, then quickly held onto his shoulders for dear life. He really  _did_  look like Bambi—wide-eyed, feet slipping, long legs spreading. Louis just laughed and pulled Harry along. He shuffled along the ice slowly, barely moving at all, really. Sort of just inching forward.

"You're gonna bruise my shoulder like that," Louis tsked, noting the way Harry's fingers dug sharply into his flesh.

Harry's cheeks flushed pink from embarrassment (and the cold weather, too). "If I die, I'm blaming you," he warned as he let go.

Louis laughed and gently held his wrists, guiding him along the rink. "I'll take that risk."

Harry stuck out his tongue. He probably wanted to look intimidating, but he just looked adorable. A crease formed in his forehead as he tried to concentrate. His eyes glued to his skates as they slid along the ice.

"You wanna spin?" Louis suggested, squeezing Harry's hand to grab his attention. His palms felt warm underneath his gloves.

"Spin?"

"Yeah," Louis said, curling an arm around Harry's pudgy waist. He twirled them together in a circle. Harry's eyes widened as he latched onto Louis's hips out of instinct.

"Don't make me dizzy," Harry warned. He brushed his nose against Louis's.

The heels of Louis's skates tapped against the ice. They stopped in their tracks. Harry looked up through his fluttering lashes, his puffy lips breathing clouds into the cold air.

"You make me dizzy every time I look at you," Louis cooed.

Harry pretended to gag. "Your attempts at romance are slowly driving me to insanity."

"I thought I was doing quite well."

"You're lucky I like cheesy compliments," Harry huffed.

They continued to glide along the rink, still attached at the hip, literally speaking. And by the end of the night, Harry only fell a grand total of five times.

He considered that a success.

੦੦੦

"Louis!" Harry whined, tugging at his jumper sleeve. He reached for the remote in Louis's petite hands, but he flinched away, tucking it behind his back. Harry pouted. "I don't wanna watch a scary film! Turn it off!"

Louis chuckled. "It's not even  _scary_ , Harry."

Harry frowned. "Don't say it—"

"Scary, Harry! Get it? 'Cause it rhymes," Louis laughed, twinkles of satisfaction sparking in his eyes.

Harry groaned with annoyance. "I'm serious, Louis. I don't wanna watch it."

Louis tilted his head. "It's not even a horror film, Styles. It's bloody  _Jurassic Park_."

"Dinosaurs are terrifying, Lou!" Harry defended, crinkling his nose.

"The movie isn't even about dinosaurs. It's a metaphorical cautionary tale on chaos theory and scientific criticism," Louis explained, turning up the volume on his telly. The title glowed on the large screen: white capital letters with the silhouette of a dinosaur skeleton.

Harry's raised his brow. "Did you rehearse that?"

"Maybe."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"No, what's ridiculous is that you haven't seen the film yet. Or read the book. It's a classic!" Louis complained, propping his feet on the coffee table. Fluffy socks covered his tiny feet, scrunching around his ankles. Speckled joggers rode low on his hips, revealing a bit of tanned skin before the hem of his t-shirt. Harry reckoned he looked like a soft, cuddly hedgehog. That may be an oxymoron, but to Harry it made perfect sense.

"It came out in 1993, Lou. I wasn't even  _born_."

Louis frowned. "Right. I forgot you're an infant."

Harry snorted. "Shut up. You're dating an infant, so."

"Point taken."

Harry huffed and snatched a handful of crisps out of the bag in Louis's lap. He chewed them loudly, crunching continuously as the movie started. A bit of salt gathered on his bottom lip, so his tongue darted out to lick it up, and Louis couldn't keep his eyes off his mouth. On the screen, some Spanish-speaking Jurassic Park workers stood in orange hard hats as the leaves ruffled creepily in a dense forest, and it really was quite spooky, he should probably be at the edge of his seat, but Harry's mouth was utterly distracting.

Harry caught Louis staring out of the corner of his eye. "Thought you said you wanted to watch the film," he grumbled.

Louis chuckled softly. "I've seen it a dozen times."

"Then why are we watching it?"

" 'cause  _you_ haven't."

Harry ignored him. His eyes glued to the telly as "Isla Nublar" lit up at the bottom of the screen. Great, he thought. So this was the infamous dinosaur island? Literally "Cloud Island"? Sounded more like a fairytale setting, not a dinosaur-infested park of horror.

"Stop thinking so hard," Louis tsked, noting the way Harry's forehead scrunched in concentration. He finished up the crisps and tilted the crinkled bag, emptying the crumbs into his mouth. Then he balled it up and tossed it aside. He'd throw it away later, he decided.

Harry didn't reply. He just watched the TV as the dinosaur snatched up a man, drawing him into its cage, and started shouting, "Shoot her!" Harry bit his lip as he witnessed the workers pulling out guns, aiming them towards the prehistoric creature. Shots were fired. Sparks flied everywhere. The camera zoomed on the dinosaur's eye and scale-covered skin.

"I hate this already," Harry whined and lolled his head onto Louis's soft shoulder.

Louis smiled as Harry's curls tickled under his chin, soft ringlets brushing his neck. He let his arm wrap around Harry's shoulder to hold him closer. To keep him there. He could feel his breathing slow down as the opening scene ended.

"We can watch somethin' else if you want," Louis suggested, fearing that Harry had already lost interest.

"No."

"I don't mind—"

"No," Harry repeated, kissing Louis's collarbone gently.

Butterflies fluttered in Louis's tummy. His skin tingled because, holy fuck, neck kisses were his kryptonite. His hand tightened on Harry's shoulder as he let out a quiet breath of surprise.

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat. He tried to focus on  _Jurassic Park_ , but somehow, halfway through the movie, Harry's hand settled in Louis's lap. It was such a casual movement, just resting his palm there, but Louis felt like he could barely breathe. His fingers were just inches away from his dick.  Holy shit.

"Harry," Louis choked out, and he sounded completely wrecked.

Harry hummed in response, just to show that he was listening. The tyrannosaur roared on the telly. Its large clawed feet pounded on the muddy ground. Harry had to admit that, for 1993, the special effects weren't bad. Fairly decent, actually.

What was Louis supposed to say? Harry, can you please remove your hand from my lap because I feel like I'm two seconds away from getting hard? No. He couldn't possibly say that. But frankly, Louis wasn't wearing pants underneath his joggers, and Harry's hand just kept  _twitching_ subconsciously.

"Never mind," Louis mumbled.

"No, say it," Harry urged, his eyes finally lifting up to meet Louis's. And, ah, those fucking green eyes. Those beautiful viridescent irises that snagged Louis's gaze and refused to let go. They held him captive.

Louis swallowed hard. "I just, um. You're very pretty."

It wasn't a lie. Harry smiled widely— the kind where his cheeks dimple and his eyes crinkle.

"You too," Harry breathed before bringing their lips together.

੦੦੦

 _Jurassic Park_ ended about an hour later. And somehow, one thing lead to another, and Louis and Harry started making out on his couch. The credits rolled behind them, the only source of light in the otherwise darkened room. Harry straddled Louis's lap as they kissed passionately, his thighs planted on either side of the professor. His hands touched Louis's chest and clung to the fabric of his t-shirt as Louis tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth.

Louis's hands trailed to the small of Harry's back. They slipped under the hem of Harry's sheer blouse and roamed up his sides. He felt cold, but not in a bad way. In a soothing way. Harry whined deep in his throat as his tongue slipped past Louis's lips.

" 'arry," Louis groaned as Harry shifted in his lap. His fingernails dug into the flesh of Harry's pudgy hips, which stuck out a bit over the waistband of his jeans.

Harry's breath quickened. He inhaled sharply between kisses. His concentration focused solely on  _Louis, Louis, Louis._ He cupped Louis's face, his stubble scratching over the softness of his palms. His thumbs hooked under his jaw and held him closer.

"Lou," Harry whispered between their lips, his nervousness swallowing the last syllable of his name.

He craned his neck, and Louis immediately latched on, sucking a bite into the side of his throat. Harry gasped in surprise, but then Louis's teeth started grazing over his skin. He fell apart. He grasped Louis's broad shoulders and held on for dear life. It felt incredible. His warm tongue licked over the swelling bruise.

"Louis," Harry choked out. His eyes fluttered shut, his lashes dancing over the redness of his cheeks.

The older lad didn't reply. He just nibbled on the bruise some more.

"Please," Harry begged, but Louis didn't know for what he was asking. To continue? To fuck him? To— god forbid—stop?

"You okay?" Louis breathed out, pulling away. He left a shiny splat of saliva on the fresh hickey.

Harry gulped. "I just—I want, um. Slow down." He couldn't even form a complete sentence.

Guilt washed over Louis's face. "I'm sorry. I got carried away," he muttered.

Harry gave a weakened smile. " 's alright."

Louis paused for a few seconds. He glanced behind Harry briefly. The credits continued to scroll down the screen. The glow of the telly stained their skin with a blueish hue.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Louis asked lightly.

Harry squinted with confusion. "It's nine o'clock at night, Louis."

Louis snickered. "Okay, well. Will you stay for a nine o'clock snack, then? We can order pizza?"

Harry grinned. "Sure. I just have to be home by midnight, otherwise Gemma will throw a fit."

Louis sighed as his hands settled on Harry's thighs. "You're nineteen. Why do you still have a curfew?"

"She's protective."

"You can take care of yourself."

Harry tilted his head. "You can't really blame her for being cautious. All she knows about you is that you're twenty-six years old and named Louis."

Louis grumbled in annoyance. "Why does age matter?"

Harry snorted. "You're nearly  _thirty_."

Louis's mouth dropped open. "I am  _not_! Jesus Christ, Harry."

"You are if you round up," Harry giggled, flicking up his index finger for emphasis.

Louis rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

"I'm just teasing," Harry mumbled, blinking with innocence. He kissed Louis's cheek apologetically.

"Yeah, whatever," Louis huffed. "Now get your bum off my lap. I gotta order a pizza. What would you like?"

Harry hummed as he pondered. He tapped his chin. "Pepperoni and cheese?"

Louis slumped his shoulders, an unamused expression filling his face. "You're so boring. I'd expect somethin' weird from someone as creative as you."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Anchovies and garlic?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "That's gross."

"You're gross."

"Touche."

"For fuck's sake, Harry. We're never gonna get pizza if you don't get your  _touche_ off me this instant."

Harry barked a loud laugh, one that rumbled in his chest and made his face scrunch up. He looked like the personification of sunshine— glowing brightly, shimmering with joy, lighting up the darkness. Louis's heart thudded in his chest as Harry rolled off his lap.

Louis bit his lip as he grabbed his mobile phone. Thankfully, he had the local pizza parlor on speed dial.

੦੦੦

"Thank you," Louis grinned, pushing a wad of cash into the delivery boy's hand. He wore a blue polo shirt with the pizza company's logo embroidered in the breast pocket. The grease-stained pizza box set heavily in Louis's arms. The warmth seeped through the cardboard.

The boy grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth with train-track braces. "Have a nice—"

"You too," Louis interrupted, closing the door in his face. He didn't like unnecessary chit-chat.

"Hurry up, Lou!" Harry called from the nearby kitchen. "I'm starving."

Louis rolled his eyes. "Grab two plates, alright? In the furthest cabinet on the left. I'll be there in a sec," he shouted back.

He heard Harry grunt in response. "Fine."

Sneakily, Louis opened the lid of the box. He pulled out a pen from his pocket and, with his tongue pressed between his lips, wrote 'BE MY BOYFRIEND?' across the cardboard. His handwriting wasn't the neatest, and bits of cheese and grease ruined his cute message, but oh well. He wasn't really into big romantic gestures. But asking Harry to go official via pizza? He could do that.

Louis closed the lid and capped the pen. He carried the box back into the kitchen. Harry sat at one of the tall bar stools, sipping some off brand Coke from a cold aluminum can, condensation building up at the sides. He raised his eyebrows as Louis set the pizza down.

"Took you long enough," Harry teased, gulping the last of his soda.

Louis sent him a glare. "Whatever. Grab us some slices, okay? I'll fetch napkins."

Harry hummed in agreement. Louis tried to hide his blush as he opened the drawer.  _Stay calm_ , he ordered himself. He didn't want to spoil the surprise. Louis's hands trembled with nervousness as he grabbed a few napkins, listening to Harry as he opened the pizza box. Silence ticked by for one, two, three seconds. Louis knew he was probably reading the message.

"Louis," Harry exhaled.

Louis looked up shyly. "Yes?"

Harry's eyes flickered back to the box's lid. His lips fell open, like he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"I can't believe you," Harry said softly. "Asking me to be your boyfriend with pizza?"

Louis frowned at his reaction. "Are you— are you disappointed?"

Harry shook his head instantly. Louis noticed some tears gathering in the corners of his emerald eyes. Happy tears, he hoped.

"No," Harry sighed. "It's just a little  _cheesy_."

Louis froze. "Oh my fucking god," he swore. "You of all people would make pun at a time like this. I was trying to be thoughtful!"

Harry smiled widely. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."

Louis scoffed as he grabbed a slice of pizza. Strings of cheese stuck to the cardboard. Red sauce oozed at the edges, the crust golden brown.

"You never answered the damn question," Louis said impatiently.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Isn't it obvious? My answer is yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, of course, you idiot. I'd love to be your boyfriend."

Louis liked the way it rolled off his tongue. The word  _boyfriend_. It sounded lovely.

"Okay," the professor said, sighing. "That's good. 'cause I haven't got any other tricks up my sleeve."

Harry giggled and brought their lips together.  _Boyfriends_.

੦੦੦

To put it simply, Harry cared about people. He didn't socialize as much as a "normal" person, but he truly cared about the feelings and wellbeing of others. He liked making others feel special and loved and appreciated.

So on Louis's twenty-seventh birthday, Harry decided to give Louis the best present ever.

They'd only been official boyfriends for a little over a week, but it was the best week in Harry's entire existence. It was filled with kisses and cute dates and cuddles. They were basically attached at the hip. Harry had changed Louis's name in his phone contacts to 'boyfriend' with three exclamation points and the gay couple emoji. Needless to say, he was very happy. And so was Louis.

To be honest, Harry gave Louis more affection in _one_ week than Zayn did throughout the entirety of their relationship. He soon realized that relationships were supposed to be filled with truthfulness and happiness, not lies and secrets. Yes, arguments were inevitable, but he figured out why Zayn used to but heads all the time. It was because they didn't know how to  _solve_ said arguments. They just pushed each other around until the other person caved in. This lead to distrust and bitterness and, eventually, their breakup.

But perhaps it was all for the best.

Currently, Louis and Harry were in Harry's kitchen making Christmas gingerbread biscuits for Louis's birthday, seeing as it was Christmas Eve. The professor had explained that all he wanted for his birthday was to spend some quality time with his boyfriend making holiday crafts. And, really, how could Harry say 'no' to that?

Gemma was at work, but Harry wanted to properly introduce them when she returned later that evening. Louis felt both nervous and excited to meet her face-to-face.

Michael Buble's Christmas album blasted through the small flat. Louis used a wooden spoon as a makeshift microphone, singing the lyrics to "Jingle Bells" at the top of his lungs. Harry giggled and rolled his eyes. Louis may be twenty-seven now, but he still acted like a child.

A plate of baked biscuits stacked on a white plate, crispy with golden edges. They ranged in size and shape, from tiny trees to large reindeer to the classic man. Harry held a bag of icing in his hand and squirted some white frosting onto one biscuit, his tongue pressed with concentration.

Louis swayed his hips back and forth as he danced through the kitchen. His tiny feet glided over the tiled floors. His fluffy socks made it easy to slide across like ice. As it turned out, Louis couldn't bake to save his life. He left the cooking to Harry.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh, hey!" Louis sang cheerfully, brushing past Harry as he frosted the gingerbread. He pinched Harry's bum as he walked by.

Harry turned around, pretending to be scandalized. His mouth pressed into an open 'o.'

Louis just winked. "Couldn't resist."

"You're a hopeless baker," Harry tsked. He turned back to tend to the biscuits. He squeezed the remainder of the frosting onto the final gingerbread man.

But, to be honest, Harry  _was_ making it quite difficult to resist. He wore this oversized knitted Christmas jumper that should look hideouson anyone, but Harry managed to pull it off. It was the dullest shade of green with red felt hearts sewed into the front. The sleeves hung past Harry's fingertips, getting in the way as he frosted the biscuits.

Some dark jeans suffocated his thighs and calves. They practically looked painted on. He wore some Christmas-themed socks with puppies that wore red Santa hats. Louis could see his toes wiggle beneath the fabric as he moved his feet to the beat of the music.

Louis plucked a gingerbread man from the plate. He nibbled on its arm. It was still warm and tasted delicious.

"Louis," Harry sighed. "Those were supposed to be for  _tomorrow_."

Louis pouted. "But it's my birthday," he said around a mouthful of biscuit.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Louis smiled triumphantly. He shoved the rest of the gingerbread in his mouth. Harry cooed at the sight. He looked like an adorable chipmunk with stuffed cheeks. It crunched loudly as he chewed.

"Speaking of your birthday," Harry hummed. He set the empty frosting bag aside to give Louis his undivided attention.

Louis raised his brow suspiciously. "Yes?"

"I have a present for you."

"Do you?"

"Indeed," Harry said, tapping Louis's nose. " 's in my bedroom. Follow me."

Louis wiggled his eyebrows. "Is it a sexy present?"

Harry scoffed. "No."

Louis frowned. They'd been boyfriends for a week now, but so far they hadn't gotten past making out and love bites. And it's not that Louis  _expected_ Harry to want to have sex so quickly, but he wouldn't necessarily reject the proposition, either. He'd say yes in a heartbeat, actually.

The professor trailed behind Harry towards his bedroom. He wiped his icing-covered fingers on his baggy joggers, then brushed the crumbs out of the corners of his mouth. He felt comfortable around Harry, though, like he didn't have to look perfect 24/7. Harry found his slobbish habits adorable, most of the time.

Louis sat on the edge of Harry's bed as Harry rummaged through his dresser. A rectangular mirror hung above it, reflecting the image of his art-themed bedroom. It was a hipster's paradise, complete with twinkly lights and a framed replica of Salvador Dalí's  _The Persistence of Memory_. Vases filled with fake flowers decorated his bedside table and the bookshelf in the corner. Louis noticed the paint splatters and smudges that coated his small wooden desk. A proper artist's desk, he thought. It was messy.

"Aha!" Harry said, pulling out a red box, about twelve inches in length. A pretty white bow stuck to the lid.

Louis squinted. "For me?" he asked rhetorically.

Harry set the gift in Louis's awaiting hands. Then he took a seat next to him, plopping his bum on the springed mattress. The duvet wrinkled beneath him.

"Happy twenty-seventh, you old doof," Harry grinned. He kissed Louis's temple, who blushed a light shade of pink.

"Thanks, baby."

It was supposed to be a joke, a prod at his youth, but Harry preened at the cute pet name. Dimples sunk into his cheeks as he grinned. Louis thought he looked like the sun.

"Open it," Harry pressed.

Louis grunted before peeling back the ribbon. His fingers curled under the lid and slowly jiggled it off, his fingernails scraping under the cardboard material. Removing the top, Louis saw a layer of scarlet tissue paper. It crinkled as he pulled it away.

He revealed a large metal tin. French cursive letters scrolled across the front. Louis shook his head with disbelief.

"Is this Sennelier?"

Harry bit back a grin. "Yes. You know the brand?"

Louis scoffed. "Are you kidding me, Harry? These watercolours must've cost a fortune. I'd have to sell my soul to afford Sennelier paints!"

With excitement, the professor popped off the top of the container. Rows of watercolour tubes filled the inside of the tin, cradled by soft velvet. The colours were organized like a rainbow, starting with red and gradually transitioning to violet. Three brushes of different widths and bristle types lined the edge. Louis's hands trembled as he picked up a single tube of—according to the label—French Vermilion. But to Louis, it just looked like orange.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked shyly.

Louis looked up, shock plastered on his face. "Of course I like it, Styles. Holy fuck. I can't believe you!" he said, a laugh melting into his voice.

Harry just shrugged, as if these paints didn't cost an arm and a leg. "You mentioned you were running low on watercolours, so."

"So you decided to buy bloody Sennelier? Jesus Christ. I would've been fine with Crayola, for crying out loud," Louis insisted.

"But you deserve the best."

"You're ridiculous," Louis sighed. He set the tube back in the tin and closed the lid. It clicked shut with an audible 'tick.'

"I can take them back," Harry offered hesitantly. He worried that Louis thought he was trying too hard.

"No. I like them, Harry. I just— it's a  _lot_ of money."

"I know."

"And you spent all that money on  _me_."

Harry blinked with confusion. "Well, yes. Isn't that what boyfriends do?"

Louis looked at Harry with admiration, as if he couldn't believe he was actually  _real_ and  _alive_ and  _breathing._ He didn't know how he got so lucky. Harry was the loveliest person in the entire universe. He had such a large heart, despite his broken and tragic past. Most would drown themselves in self-pity, but not Harry.

"I suppose so," Louis said moments later. Their eyes connected at last, the greenness of earth meeting ocean waves of blue. Everything about Harry seemed so soft and gentle. His leisurely voice, his puffy cheeks, his silky hair, his plush lips. He put teddy bears to shame.

"Now would be the perfect time to thank me," Harry teased, his tone a tad breathless.

Louis chuckled. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much. I— I really appreciate this," he said, patting the box with his palm.

Harry nodded, his curls bouncing. "You're welcome."

Louis leaned in to kiss Harry, and it felt so natural, like a habit engraved into his brain. It felt as normal as breathing. Their lips moved together slowly and lazily, but not in a sloppy manner— just comfortably. Louis's tongue prodded against Harry's chapped lips.

Harry parted his mouth and swallowed a whimper. Louis could get him worked up over something as simple as kissing. It was humiliating. His hands clasped Louis's shoulders as they continued to kiss, the hair above Louis's upper lip scratching at his skin. He tasted like mint. Sharp yet refreshing.

"Louis," Harry warned between kisses.

Louis hummed against his lips, just to prove that he was paying attention. But he didn't stop snogging him. In fact, he just quickened the pace. His hands found their way to Harry's long hair, carding and brushing it with his fingers. They inched closer, until just the metal paint tin in Louis's lap kept them apart.

Subconsciously, Harry gripped Louis's shirt, fisting the fabric that bunched up at his sides. The air felt hot around them. Quick, eager, anxious. Shedding clothes seemed quite appealing.

"Harry," Louis exhaled, separating their lips.

Instead, he latched onto the spot under Harry's jawline. Harry stilled as Louis licked at the old bruise that still stained his skin. His teeth and tongue felt heavenly. He never wanted this sensation to stop— ever.

"Let's take off this hideous jumper, yes?" Louis said, releasing Harry's neck. He looked at the freshly-agitated mark, all red and swollen and glistening with spit. He felt pride swell in the pit of his stomach.

"Hideous?" Harry asked around a dry laugh.

Regardless, he gripped the knitted hem of his jumper and yanked it over his head. He felt relieved as the scratchy yarn detached itself from his skin.

"Looks good on you, though," Louis assured.

His eyes glued to Harry's bare torso, admiring the way his nipples perked up, the swollen pinkness contrasting against his pale complexion. He could see the faint outline of muscles that carved down his abdomen. A light trail of hair started beneath his navel and disappeared under the hem of his jeans.

Louis pressed against Harry's chest, the younger boy letting out a quiet yelp of surprise. His back fell flush against the bed. Louis moved to straddle him, but Harry's eyes widened in protest. He swatted Louis's thigh.

"Be careful! That paint isn't cheap, you know?" he huffed, eyeing Louis's gift. It bounced on the sheets as the bed shifted.

Louis frowned. "Sorry." He set the Sennelier tin aside with caution. It teetered on the edge of Harry's bedside table.

"It's okay," Harry said with a smile.

He latched onto Louis's wrist, tugging him on top. Louis's thighs spread to his sides. His hands planted on his chest, his flesh warm and soft and comforting. He could feel Harry's heart thudding beneath his palm.

"You alright?" Louis asked, a pitch higher than usual.

Harry gulped. " 'm fine."

"You're burning up," Louis pointed out. He genuinely worried about Harry's well-being. Did he not trust him? Did he frighten him by coming on too strong

"Just nervous," Harry confessed, biting his lips shyly.

"We can stop," Louis said without hesitation.

But Harry just shook his head (as well as he could lying down). He focused on breathing for a few seconds. From the look on his face, Louis knew he wanted him to stay. To continue.

"You sure?" Louis doubted.

"Yes. 'm not scared. Just excited."

"Good."

"Okay, then." Harry made grabby gestures at Louis's shirt. It was quite adorable, the professor might add. Like a baby asking for a rattle.

Louis chuckled raspily as he shed his t-shirt, letting it fall to the floor. Harry's mouth fell open slightly as his eyes raked over Louis's naked chest. Even in winter, he managed to have a perfect sun-kissed tan. Bless him. He had the cutest little tummy, too, which bunched up every time he bent over.

Speaking of which, he leaned in to kiss Harry, his weight tight against his body in the best way possible. Harry felt Louis's bulge nudge against his leg, still concealed in his joggers, which sank down his waist. Harry thought they were a size too large, but he didn't dare say anything. Louis liked to think that he was tall and brawny, despite his petite figure.

Suddenly, Louis rutted down against Harry's thigh, his his hips snapping in short, quick movements. Harry gasped at the friction, his dick becoming firmer with each passing second. His dull nails scratched at Louis's shoulder blades. Sweat clung between their chests. Harry panted between kisses.  

"Fuck," Harry cursed, his eyes rolling back.

Louis reached between them and thumbed over Harry's left nipple. He rotated the hardened bud between his fingers, eliciting a broken whine from the nineteen year old. He withered helplessly.

"L- Louis," Harry croaked.

Louis smirked in response. The way Harry said his name, so brokenly and wrecked, sparked arousal deep in his abdomen. He wanted Harry to scream it out loud, on a rooftop perhaps, at the top of his lungs.

So he let his tongue flick over his nipple. It was quick and light, but it made Harry gasp and dig his fingers into Louis's back.

"Oh my—"

Louis sucked the nub between his lips for a few seconds, then released it, a trail of saliva sticking between them.

"So good," Harry sighed, his lashes fluttering.

He looked relaxed now, lost in total bliss. He felt completely boneless, all pliant and calm and syrupy. Like he got lost in the clouds somewhere, and Louis was an angel looking upon him with admiration, a halo of light glowing above his hair.

"You're gorgeous," Louis confessed, kneading at the pudge of his hips.

Harry blinked bashfully. "Thanks."

Louis's hand trailed towards the zipper of his jeans. He froze, glancing up hesitantly. But Harry didn't look reluctant—just needy and inviting. He tugged his lip between his teeth.

"Is this okay?" Louis asked, poking the button of his trousers.

Harry swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah. Definitely, yeah." He didn't intentionally repeat himself— it just slipped. He could barely think straight. The world seemed lagged in slow motion, lost in anticipation and want.

Louis's nimble fingers tugged down on Harry's zipper. Then he undid his button, slipping the small piece of metal through the thread-lined hole. He wondered how in the world Harry could squeeze into these form-fitting jeans, let alone how he managed to stuff his phone and wallet in the tight pockets. Louis refocused on the task and wiggled the jeans down his body, red marks of suffocation etched across his waist.

Harry lifted his bum so Louis could glide them off his legs, tugging them past his ankles. His erection strained against his pants. He nudged his skinnies off the edge of the bed.

At this point, Harry's face was as red as a cherry. He looked at Louis with pleading eyes. Bits of hair stuck to his forehead, attached to his skin with perspiration.

"Can you, um, touch me?" Harry asked shyly, his hips jutting involuntarily.

Louis didn't give a verbal response. Instead, he slipped his fingers under Harry's elastic waistband. His brain flew in a million different directions. He was actually going to touch his student's dick— or rather, former student. The same one who, just a few months prior, was unable to say his own name out loud.

They've made a lot of progress since then.

He slipped Harry's pants down his thighs, freeing his swollen and half-hard cock. He tossed the bunched-up fabric aside. Harry had a lot more length than Louis had anticipated. Maybe half an inch longer than Louis, actually. Not bad for a teenager, he thought.

Louis's eyes flickered to Harry's bedside table. "Got any lotion or anythin'? I don't want it to irritate you," he said, waving his hand for emphasis.

Harry blushed. "Erm, yeah, just—one second."

He stretched towards the drawer and yanked it open clumsily. Jewelry and miscellaneous rubbish rattled around inside. After a few seconds of searching, he found a bottle of uncapped lotion. Dried pink goo oozed at the sides. He tossed to Louis and thankfully he caught it, regardless of Harry's awful aim and lack of hand-eye coordination.

He narrowed his eyes at the half-empty tube. "Sweet pea scent? Lovely," he mused. He took a quick wiff and, to his surprise, it actually smelled delightful.

Harry pouted. "Stop making fun of me."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

Louis chuckled. He lathered his hands with lotion. "I'm not. I think it's adorable that you want your cock to smell like flowers when you masturbate."

Harry groaned with annoyance and covered his face with his hands. "Oh my god, Louis. Please just shut up and—  _oh,_ fuck."

Louis's slick hand gripped the base of Harry's cock. He twitched in response, his legs spreading wider so Louis could settle between them. The friction made his blood boil until every part of him felt hot and overwhelmed, from his head to the tips of his toes. Louis's hand moved up and down his length, thumbing over the head for a brief moment. Harry shuddered beneath his touch.

"No wonder you're an artist," Harry said breathlessly.

Louis continued to jerk him off slowly. "What?"

Harry bit back a smirk. "You're— _fuck_ — you're really good with your hands."

Louis scoffed. "Only you would make a joke whilst receiving a hand job."

For emphasis, he quicked the pace. Harry bent his knees and moaned deep in his throat. He bucked up from the mattress, letting his dick glide into Louis's small fist. He stiffened with each quick and tight stroke.

Louis's arm muscles burned with fatigue, but he kept going, relishing the looks of pleasure that twisted on Harry's face. He bit his tongue with concentration. He watched as some pre-come glistened at the tip of Harry's cock. He was so damn sensitive and responsive, and Louis just couldn't get enough of it.

"I— I don't—  _fuck_ ," Harry choked, struggling to form proper sentences. His eyes screwed shut as Louis's free hand cupped his balls.

"What was that, love?" Louis asked smugly.

Harry whimpered. "Don't wanna cum yet."

Louis paused. "Why not?"

Harry's eyes fluttered open. "I— it's  _your_ birthday. Want to do something for you."

Louis rolled his eyes. "You don't owe me sexual favors just 'cause it's my birthday, Styles. I'm getting off on this, too."

Harry's gaze flickered to the tent in Louis's joggers. He was right, but Harry still felt selfish. This was Louis's special day, yet he made it all about himself—or rather, his cock. His chest heaved with nervousness. He knew what he wanted, but he didn't know how to ask. His hands twitched with worry, twisting the bedsheets until his knuckles turned white.

"You're turning red," Louis worried. "You want me to stop... or continue?"

Harry's lips quivered around a word, but he stayed silent. A block of ice froze in his throat. He couldn't speak. A single breath exhaled from his withering lungs.

"I, um. I want you to fuck me," he said softly.

Louis didn't respond for one, two, three seconds. He met Harry's gaze, seeing nothing but sincerity in his bright green irises. His cock jerked in his joggers, anxious for some sort of skin-to-skin contact.

"Fuck," Louis breathed. Every shred of self-control snapped in an instant. "Thought you'd never ask."

A dopey smile grew on Harry's strawberry lips. Louis kissed him senselessly. It was messy and full of urgency, his tongue swiping the inside of his cheek. Harry tugged sharply at Louis's hair as the professor grinded against his thigh. He breathed hotly into his mouth.

"Lube," Harry urged, flapping his hand towards his bedside drawer.

Louis grinned at his childish ways. He rummaged through the drawer, sifting through various scents of lotion, ranging from vanilla to coconut. And, alas, he found a dwindling bottle of lube at the bottom, hidden beneath a pile of random papers. He threw a worried glance over his shoulder.

"Got any condoms?"

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Think so."

Louis flipped through the drawer's contents again. Eventually, he found a singular square packet. A feeling of reality sunk into his stomach. Holy shit. This was really happening.

Sensing his nervousness, Harry touched Louis's wrist to bring him back to actuality. "Hey, just relax, yeah? It's okay. We trust each other, right?"

Louis nodded. "Of course. I trust you more than anyone else."

"Good. The feeling's mutual."

Louis gave a small smile before kicking off his joggers and boxers in one go. His cock was hard against his stomach. Harry whined quietly as Louis stroked himself a few times, still slick with lotion. Everything about Louis was thick, from his thighs to his arse to his dick. Harry felt so goddamn lucky.

"Gonna open you up, okay?" Louis clarified as he reached for the lube. "Do you wanna lay on your belly?"

Belly, Harry thought. How adorable.

"Yeah," Harry hummed and rolled over. He turned his face so his temple squished against his feather-filled pillow, which felt cold against his blushed cheeks.

Louis sat between his legs. He kneaded into the flesh of Harry's bum, one hand on each cheek. Then he spread them apart, eliciting a quiet whimper from the younger boy. Louis's thumb brushed over his clenched muscle.

Harry never thought his sexual student-teacher fantasies would come to life someday. When he first met Louis, he just thought he was a fit professor. It was no more than infatuation. He never thought he'd fall for Louis, but he did. And he fell hard.

"You sure about this?" Louis asked, tracing his index finger up and down Harry's inner thighs. His voice sounded sweet and soft, calming every rattled nerve in Harry's body. "Don't feel obligated, please, just 'cause it's my birthday."

Harry glanced over his shoulder to give a reassuring smile. "I really care about you, Louis. I want this."

Louis nodded. He uncapped the lube and poured a generous amount onto his fingers. The bottle made a fart-like noise as it squirted. Harry giggled childishly.

He jokingly waved his hand in front of his nose, scrunching his face with disgust. "You're so stinky, Louis!"

Louis rolled his eyes. Was Harry even real? He never failed to leave him astounded. He ignored the younger boy and leaned back on his heels. He pressed his pointer finger against Harry's fluttering pink hole, clenching with anticipation.

"Ready?"

"Yes. C'mon."

Louis gulped before nudging past his entrance. Harry's tight heat swallowed his finger up to the knuckle. Harry gasped and screwed his eyes shut, biting his fist. Louis felt a rush of panic. He never wanted to hurt Harry—never in a million years. He already suffered enough in his life. He only wanted to make him feel  _good_  and  _happy_  and  _loved_.

"Okay?" Louis said, wiggling the tip of his finger a bit. His walls clenched around him.

"Perfect," Harry sighed. "Just, um, haven't done this in a while."

"Oh?" Louis asked rhetorically, nudging his middle finger along the first. Harry felt tight and slick with lube. He paused to let his body adjust.

He looked down at Harry's arse, how his fingers disappeared past his rim, lube oozing at the sides, his hole stretched to fit around the width. His entire body felt warm and flushed, even on the inside. Slowly, he nudged his fingers apart, then brought them back together.

"Ah— fuck," Harry groaned, shifting so his leaking cock glided along the sheets.

Louis became lost in deep concentration, fueled by the desire to find that spot that drove him mad. He scissored him for a few more seconds, then curled his fingers in unison. Harry's eyes bulged as his mouth flew open. He let out a strangled moan, head snapping up from the pillow.

"Oh my— Louis, bloody hell," he cursed, breaths languid.

Ah, Louis thought. He found it.

He added a third finger, fitting it along the initial two. He wanted to prep Harry thoroughly beforehand, even if that meant neglecting his own throbbing erection, which bobbed painfully against his stomach with each passing second. He swore under his breath and jutted his fingers inward, sharp and quick. He watched the muscles in Harry's legs tense up, his toes curling with pleasure.

" 'm ready," Harry assured, rocking back against Louis's hand.

Louis sent a silent prayer of thanks to every divine being. He pulled out his fingers and ripped open the condom. He rolled the disc over his length, leaving slack at the tip, and wiped the excess lube on his shaft. His balls felt heavy and ached for release.

"Can I turn around?" Harry asked quietly, as if he needed permission.

"Yeah, love."

With that, Harry flipped onto his back, instantly grabbing the older man's shoulders to pull him closer.  Louis hovered over Harry, breath rapid and cock aching for release. He gave him a chaste kiss on the lips before lining up with his prepped hole. His entire body trembled.

He looked up at Harry lovingly, admiring the way his curly hair spread across his sweaty forehead. How his beautiful eyes looked unreal in this lighting— almost too green to be natural. Up close, he noticed every detail, from the freckles and birthmarks on his pale skin to the pimples on his nose. Every part of him was breathtaking.

The head of his dick nudged past Harry's hole. Wet, tight heat surrounded his tip, and then he pushed an inch further, pausing halfway to examine Harry's face. He was silent, his lips agape around a hushed gasp. But he didn't look uncomfortable. His nails scratched at the back of Louis's neck, his legs hooking around Louis's thighs.

"You good?" Louis rasped.

Harry nodded vigorously, his curls bouncing. Bursts of emeralds flickered behind fluttering lashes. "Go on," he urged.

He felt like he was being torn in half. Pleasure surged down his spine as Louis thrust further, going balls' deep. He bottomed out, and Harry stared at Louis with awe. His hips twitched with desire.

Harry whimpered as his body became accustomed to the intrusion. He'd only had sex twice before: once with Marcus and another time with a random hookup. So needless to say, he felt nervous. A firmness settled in his lower abdomen as Louis paused, his cock pushed all the way in. Harry could barely breathe. He felt so full and loved and appreciated.

"Alright?" Louis said softly, amazement plastered on his face. He just looked so  _proud_  of Harry, so cautious, so bewildered.

"Good," Harry exhaled. "Really good. You can move."

Louis gulped. He moved his hips slowly at first, just barely snapping his hips in and out. Harry braced onto his broad shoulders. His long legs clamped around him, tight muscles constricting.

After a moment, Harry grew impatient and started shifting to meet his thrusts halfway. Louis took that as an invitation to pick up the pace. He hammered into his tight heat, veins bulging in his biceps as he grasped a fistful of Harry's hair. Louis's lips fell open with bliss. The friction drove him near insanity.

With one particularly sharp thrust, Harry gasped loudly and clenched around him. "Fuck!" he nearly screamed between pants.

Louis smirked and changed his angle. As he pounded into the younger boy, the tip of his cock hit Harry's prostate repeatedly. He shuddered with pleasure. A strangled noise rippled through his throat.

"Oh my— Louis," Harry whimpered, clinging to him like his life depended on it. His cock rubbed between their bellies.

"So good," Louis said breathlessly. His fringe bounced up and down with each thrust. His muscles ached, but he needed to keep going. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop, either.

He loved this sensation— the feeling of being so close to someone in the most intimate way possible. Of course he liked orgasms, too, but he appreciated the emotional aspect of sex as well. It wasn't something he took lightly. And right now, with their chests pressed together and his lips mouthing at Harry's jawline and his cock buried deep inside of him, Louis felt like he was on cloud nine.

"Like you so much, Styles," Louis reminded, aiming for his prostate again.

Harry practically sobbed into Louis's shoulder. He nipped at his skin to suppress a whimper.

"You too," Harry huffed, his breath warm and ragged.

Harry locked his ankles around the small of Louis's back. He urged him on by digging his heels. Louis rammed into him with all his might. Harry's bed squeaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall. Harry knew it would likely leave a mark, but at the moment, he didn't care. Slapping skin and panting filled the air.

"Close," Louis warned. His thrusts turned sloppy as he neared his orgasm, a mixture of slow and fast, deep and shallow. His brain became fuzzy.

"Me too," Harry whined.

Louis gave Harry a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss as he drove into his slicked and stretched hole. The atmosphere felt rushed and heated. He practically shoved his tongue down Harry's throat, not that he minded.

"Touch yourself," Louis urged, his voice pitched higher than usual. "Make yourself come. I'm almost—fuck. Almost there."

Harry tugged his cock three times before he came, splattering thick ribbons of white onto his chest. His cum drizzled out slowly as Louis fucked him through his climax. His arse squeezed around Louis's cock as his entire body tensed up.

"Fucking— Louis! Oh my god," he moaned.

Louis clenched his teeth. Heat pooled in his lower abdomen, and with a shout of Harry's name, he came. He emptied his load in the condom and collapsed immediately, his arms giving out. His chest smushed against Harry's, his heart racing at the speed of sound. Harry's drying cum stuck between them.

Harry rubbed soothing patterns on Louis's back. He was limp inside of him, but he felt too exhausted to pull out. Harry just stared at the ceiling whilst Louis tucked his head under Harry's chin. Bless their height difference.

"Can't believe we just did that," Louis said raspily. He struggled to catch his breath.

Harry laughed dryly. "Me neither," he agreed. "Happy birthday, Louis."

"Thanks. Best present ever," Louis murmured into his neck. He pecked his collarbone. "The paint wasn't bad, either."

Harry snorted and swatted Louis's bum. "Yeah, whatever."

"Your arse is the best gift I could ever ask for."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't mind if it was my Christmas present, too."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're awful."

Louis gave a smug smile before pulling out. Harry winced quietly at the sudden emptiness, still a bit oversensitive. Louis pulled off the condom and tossed it in the nearby bin. Thankfully, he didn't miss.

Louis rolled onto his side and opened his arms. "Cuddle?"

Harry giggled before slotting up next to him. He let Louis wrap his arms around his waist and press his groin into his bum. It wasn't sexual, though—just comforting. Harry could feel Louis's heart pounding against his back. The older man pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Harry's curls.

"You know," Louis sighed. "I think I might love you a bit."

For some reason, those words didn't startle Harry. Not even the slightest.

"I think I might love you a bit, too," he confessed without hesitation.

Louis smiled and squeezed Harry's tummy. He felt like the luckiest man alive.

°°°

"Harry, I'm home!" Gemma announced, stepping in the front door.

Her keys jingled in her hand. She toed off her uncomfortable black heels, which left a blister on the bottom of her foot. She fumbled with the strap for a moment before kicking them next to Harry's pile of boots. Then, however, she noticed a pair of dirty Vans, far too small to be Harry's.

"Harry?" she repeated again, raising her voice.

She heard feet padding softly on the hardwood floors. Harry poked his head around the corner. Water soaked his hair and dripped off the tips, cascading in small droplets. Pink tinted his nose and puffy cheeks. His lips were swollen and red. Distantly, Gemma listened to the shower running in the bathroom. The pipes gargled and hissed.

"Hi, Gems," Harry greeted. His jeans and jumper were still damp.

"Just took a shower?" Gemma guessed, eyebrow raised.

Harry nodded. "Erm, yeah."

"Then why is the water still running?"

Harry gulped. "Cause, um, Louis is in there. He wanted to clean up."

Gemma's eyes widened. She looked Harry up and down, noticing his disheveled appearance. His bitten lip, the limp in his step, the love bite on his neck. A sense of protectiveness washed over her.

"Clean up? After  _what_?" she snapped.

Harry blushed. "Shut up, Gems. You already know the answer."

Gemma gasped and smacked his arm. "Harry! You just started dating less than two weeks ago."

Harry frowned. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not your responsibility."

"Yes, you are. Legally."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Gems. You're not our mother!"

"I know that, obviously. But I care about you. You're my baby brother."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not a baby. I'm nineteen. I can make decisions for myself."

"I beg to differ."

Harry slumped his shoulders. "Gems—"

"I just don't want you getting hurt, alright?" Gemma sighed, shaking her head. "It's not like you to open up to someone so quickly."

Harry scoffed. "You're acting like that's a bad thing. I  _trust_ Louis, okay?"

"Okay, but what if he hurts you and you go completely mute again, huh? Remember after mum died? You didn't talk to anyonefor  _months_ , including me. I'm trying to protect you."

"It's my life!"

"You're not even acting like yourself anymore."

Harry rolled his eyes. "My old self? The person who was unhappy and unhealthily shy and angry at the world?"

Gemma began to speak, but she only squeaked out a mere, "But—"

"May I just interject here?" Louis interrupted, stepping into the foyer.

He was running a towel over his wet hair, which looked longer and darker than usual. His joggers slipped low on his hips, so he pulled them up with one sharp tug. His wet t-shirt clung to his toned chest. He reached out to give Gemma a handshake, who stared at him blankly, completely stunned.

"I'm Louis," he greeted, grasping her bony hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Gemma hesitated before pulling away. She eyed the professor's appearance. He didn't  _look_ like a bad guy, to be completely honest. More like an adorable teddy bear. He stood an inch or two shorter than Harry.

"You too," she said, trying to sound confident. "So you're dating my brother?"

Louis smiled fondly at Harry, who looked rattled with nerves. "Yes, I am." He squeezed Harry's waist to calm him down. His thumb brushed over his hip.

"And you're, what? Twenty-something?"

"Twenty-seven, as of today," Louis confirmed with a short nod. "I understand your concerns, but I assure you Harry is in good hands. I would never hurt him."

Gemma briefly glanced at Harry, who stared at her with pleading eyes that screamed, "Please, don't embarrass me." She still felt hesitant, but Louis seemed relatively nice. She'd keep a close eye on him, of course, but she had no reason to dislike him— at least, not yet.

"Well, Louis. I feel obligated to let you know that if you hurt my brother, I will not hesitate to hunt you down," she warned, waving her finger in a threatening manner.

Louis's smile softened. "I know. I have no intentions of doing so. I care about Harry a lot, and he's very special to me. I was in an unhealthy relationship before I met him, and he brought me out of a really dark place. I think we both did, in a way."

Gemma watched as a dimpled grin grew on Harry's lips. She hadn't seen him smile that wide in years. It melted her heart.

"Okay, Louis. You seem like a sweet man. You have my blessing," she sighed happily.

Louis laughed, little crinkles forming next to his eyes. "Thank you."

Gemma nodded. She shrugged off her grey jacket and hung it on the hook in the wall. Then she turned towards the kitchen. The ruffles in her white blouse bounced with each step.

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Louis? I'd like to get to know you better," she offered, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

Harry lit up like a Christmas tree. He grasped Louis's wrist with urgency.

"Please stay," he begged.

"Of course, babe. I'd love to."

Whilst they waited for the casserole to cook, they cuddled in the living room next to the fireplace. The air smelled like pine needles and gingerbread and potpourri and melted candles. In the corner, their small three-foot Christmas tree lit up with twinkling lights. The star at the top glowed brightly.

Holiday decorations filled the room, from the Santa figurines to the wreaths on the doors. Louis giggled and pinched the reindeer on Harry's ugly Christmas jumper, right above his still-sensitive nipple. Harry winced and smacked his hand away.

"Hurts," he whined.

Louis smirked and kissed his cheek. "Don't act like you don't like it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're a pest."

"But I'm  _your_ pest."

"True," Harry sighed, nuzzling his nose under Louis's jaw line.

They fell into a brief silence. The fireplace crackled with flickering flames, spreading orange silhouettes on the eggshell walls. In the kitchen, Gemma cooked some steamed vegetables as a side dish. The pan sizzled loudly.

"Hey, Styles?" Louis whispered.

"Hm?"

"When are we gonna tell your sister that we met at university? That I was your professor?" he asked quietly. "I don't like lying."

Harry bit his lip. He looked up shyly, the fireplace glowing in the whites of his eyes. "I don't know."

The oven beeped abruptly, signaling that the casserole was fully cooked.

"Dinner's ready!" Gemma called cheerfully.

Harry huffed, glancing back at Louis. "I suppose we better tell her now, yeah? She's gonna find out eventually."

Louis frowned and squeezed Harry's hand. "It'll be alright."

Harry hoped he was right.

°°°

The scratching and scraping of silverware filled the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Their dining room table was small and wooden, dents and stains blemishing into the rich mahogany. Louis kept his gaze on his plate as he shoveled chicken casserole into his mouth. Needless to say, he sometimes lacked basic table manners. Not that Harry cared. He found it utterly adorable— the way food stuck to the corners of his lips.

"So, Louis," Gemma began, munching on a mouthful of green beans. "Where are you from?"

Louis swallowed hard. "Doncaster."

Gemma smiled. "That's lovely. Are you close to your family?"

Louis shrugged. "I suppose so. I have five sisters and a baby brother, so it's quite chaotic," he chuckled.

Her hazel eyes widened. "Wow."

"Yeah. They're lovely, though. I don't see them as often as I'd like to. It's just difficult to find time to visit them, y'know?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I understand. I work for Oakridge Publishing downtown, six days a week from nine to five. Doesn't leave me with much free time."

Louis had a lot of respect for Harry's older sister. She raised him all on her own. After their mother passed away, she took her place as Harry's maternal figure. Gemma even paid for his university tuition and pressured him to follow his dreams. While others told him art wasn't "a real job," Gemma always encouraged him.

"Speaking of which," Gemma hummed. She stabbed a chunk of chicken with her fork. One of the metal tongs crooked at an awkward angle. "Do you have a job?"

Louis sent Harry a nervous glance. Then he noticed the knife next to Gemma's plate.  _Holy shit_. Gemma could actually  _kill_ Louis if she wanted to. Maybe telling her that he was Harry's professor wasn't such a good idea after all.

He might be exaggerating, but he didn't want to take any chances.

Under the table, Harry nudged his ankle with his toe to grab his attention. "You alright, Louis?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Louis snapped out of his trance. "Right. Sorry."

"So?" Gemma pressed, brow arched.

"Oh. Erm, I'm a professor."

Gemma paused. She pointed her thumb in Harry's direction. "At Harry's university?"

Louis gulped. "Yeah," he said quietly.

"Really? What do you teach?"

Louis distracted himself by twirling his knife through his untouched pile of vegetables. "Art."

Gemma froze. She dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against her plate. She didn't look angry, though. Just startled.

"Oh my fucking god. It makes perfect sense now," she scoffed. "You were Harry's art professor, weren't you? The one he always talked about?"

Louis blushed. He felt Harry's hand clasp over his own. "Erm, yeah."

"So you're the famous Mr. Tomlinson?" she gasped. "I can't believe I didn't realize it earlier!"

Although she didn't seem upset, Louis felt the need to clarify something. "But we didn't start dating until after the semester ended. We kept it professional until then."

Gemma nodded. "I see." She couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face.

Harry laughed quietly at her reaction. "So you're not angry?"

"No, of course not, Harry. I'm happy for you."

Harry flushed as Louis pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his hand. Everything would be alright.

°°°

Twenty minutes later, Louis and Harry were cleaning up in the kitchen. Despite Harry's protests, Louis insisted upon helping with the washing up. Suds filled the white sink, interlaced with dishes and silverware. Harry took a pink sponge and scrubbed the plates, then passed them to Louis who dried them with a rag.

"That went better than expected," Louis hummed.

Harry nodded in agreement. "Definitely," he murmured. "Do you think I could meet your family someday?"

Louis smiled at the thought. He knew Harry and his family would hit it off. Harry loved little kids.

"Of course, sweetheart. Maybe during spring break."

Harry rinsed a soap-covered plate under the faucet. The water ricocheted off the dish and splashed at his chest, but he ignored it.  Spring break, he thought.  Louis had confidence that their relationship would last that long.  Maybe even forever.

Harry cleared his throat.  "Speaking of family. Have you talked to Zayn yet?"

Louis frowned. "Zayn's not family, Harry."

"I know, but still. He's your ex-fiance. That's pretty significant."

"I guess so."

"Have you visited him? It's been a few weeks."

Louis chewed the inside of his cheek. "No. I guess I'm waiting for the right time."

Harry sensed his nervousness as he passed him the clean plate. Their fingers touched for a split second.

"Maybe we should go sometime next week.  _Together_."

"Together?"

"Yeah. Just in time for New Year's. I'd like to see my father, anyway."

Louis smiled and pecked Harry's lips. They'd be brave  _together_.

°°°

"Thanks for everything, Styles," Louis said for what seemed like the millionth time. He held the tin of watercolour under his arm. The taste of gingerbread (which they may have eaten for dessert) lingered on his tongue.

He stood in the middle of the doorway. Gemma had disappeared into her bedroom to give them some privacy. The air in the hall felt chillier than in their flat. He didn't want to say goodbye, but he didn't want to overstay his welcome. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

"Did you have a good birthday?" Harry asked. He fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper, which hung past his fingertips and covered his palms.

"The best," Louis promised.

"That's good. You deserve the best."

Louis smiled. "I'm just lucky I have you."

They both leaned in at the same time. The kiss felt perfect—soft and chapped and lovely. Harry tasted like strawberry lip gloss. Louis sucked on his bottom lip for a second or two. Harry's hands fluttered to hold Louis's waist, just to have something to grab onto. Something to anchor him down.

When Louis pulled away, he kept their foreheads touching. They nuzzled their noses together in an adorable Eskimo kiss.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Harry breathed quietly. If Louis wasn't accustomed to Harry's quietness, he probably wouldn't have heard it.

"Of course. We have to exchange presents, yeah?"

Harry smiled. "Yeah."

"So I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Harry echoed.

With one last kiss, Louis walked out to his car. The image of Harry's face still played through his mind. He felt like a teenager all over again, reliving his first real crush. He thought about Harry's porcelain skin, how it resembled a pale canvas. His pink pastel lips and penciled lashes, as dark as charcoal. How each facial feature looked chiseled to perfection, sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

Right then, Louis decided that Harry was his favorite work of art. And Louis was the lucky collector who managed to find this one-of-a-kind piece.

 

_**THE END** _

 


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